Lost on Nosgoth
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: Part 1 of 3. Story set during the ongoing conflict between Sarafan and Vampire. Chapter 15 up. Time to die. Please R & R.
1. The Cave

Dislcaimer: I do not own Eidos Interactive, Soul Reaver or any of the characters contained therein.  
Chapter  
  
Freya was the only daughter of Ted and Ellen Challenger, oil tycoon and women's liberation activist respectively. Born in Kent and raised in innumerable temporary homesteads, their world-wide locations varying according to the latest place in need of Ellen's evangelistic preachings, or Ted's newest slick deal, Freya soon became accustomed to taking what she needed when she needed it. In her formative years this was generally food, amusement and affection, whilst in her later years it tended to be money and knowledge. From her parents' teachings, both intentional and otherwise, she had gleaned that knowledge was power, and so took the opportunity to learn as much as possible about anything and everything that interested her. With her father's fortune behind her, this was relatively easy, and so the girl's voracious appetite for knowledge was fed upon history, language, politics, astronomy, astrology, gastronomy; and the list went on. Neither did she neglect the physical, as her mother's admonitions had left her with the indelible impression that, in order for equality to truly work, a woman must be the equal of a man, physically as well as mentally. To attain this end, she used her father's readily available funding to enrol in classes ranging from ballet and yoga to Kendo and Ninjitsu, eventually settling for a personal trainer as her constant moving and consequent changing of teachers and methods was affecting her style.  
  
This particular evening found her at home, seated on a marshmallow-like 3- seater sofa in her kendo kit, feet up on an oversized teak coffee table, game controller in one hand, munching away at a small mountain of popcorn. Her personal trainer had pushed her hard today, and she'd been itching to get away for the last half-hour of repetitive breathing exercises to return to her favourite video game. Her father generally disapproved of such things (unless he happened to be selling them), which, of course, made her all the more determined to obtain and master them. Her game of the moment was a 3rd person 3D adventure and puzzle-solving game by the name of "Soul Reaver". It was taking up most of her spare evenings (which were rare enough these days, what with the salsa classes and the kendo / Tai Chi evenings with the trainer who was still refusing point-blank to teach her Oni. She had a feeling she was wearing him down, though). Tonight she had managed to breach the domain of Zephon and was merrily making the protagonist of the piece hack away at some skin-crawling flunkies with his ethereal blade when she was overwhelmed with the desire for a cup of tea.  
  
Happily humming the haunting theme tune to herself, she was midway through drying off a teacup when a nagging sensation caused her to turn back and survey the lounge. At first glace all seemed normal. The popcorn and game controller lay where she had discarded them on the coffee table, the furniture was all exactly as she had left it, and the Oriental, Celtic and African hangings were shifting slightly in the breeze, as usual. Frowning slightly, she gave the cup a final buff and set it down on the worktop before moving stealthily into the next room, tea towel still in her hand. Living in various cities with numerous perils had taught her that danger usually comes when you least expect it, and so she was peering cautiously around the doorframe when she realised what was wrong. The hangings on the wall were wavering - not billowing with the draught from the open window as she'd thought, but actually shimmering as though in heat haze on a hot tarmac road. A moment more and she found the effect was not limited to the hangings, but had spread inexorably to the rest of the scene, and seemed to be gradually replacing the usual vista of couch, coffee table and television with the face of a massive 4-horned demon, roaring and snorting steam from its nostrils.  
  
The beast was a scant twenty feet from where she now stood, and it looked angry. Or hungry. Neither possibility was particularly comforting. However, on the floor about halfway between her and the beast, gleaming in the light of a fire whose source she was too busy to locate lay her sword. The one that had been in her lounge not 1 minute previously. The katana. It had a live blade. She didn't pause to wonder why it had come through with her and not the tea-towel she had been holding (capricious fate, she supposed), she just thanked luck, fate and chance and made a headlong rush for it. There was barely time to unsheathe the weapon before the beast had closed the gap and raised a massive claw in readiness to separate her from her intestines. Acting on pure instinct she brought the razor-sharp blade upwards in a sweeping arc which made contact with the left side of the demon's neck and emerged a millisecond later from the corresponding point on the right. Money well spent.  
  
The four-horned head landed with a wet thunk more or less at her feet, but for some unfathomable reason, the beast didn't quite seem to realise that it was dead, and continued to lash out with its black clawed arms, threatening to dislodge some loose rocks on a rather unstable looking wall.  
  
Freya stared at the thing in horror. "You're dead, you lummox - die!" The curse, however, did not speed the thing's demise and she cast about vainly trying to get out of its way. "Through the heart," yelled a voice from behind her, "Pierce its heart!" Without a backwards glance, she launched the katana javelin-style at the creature's chest. It connected and penetrated and she gave herself a mental pat on the back, a thought which was soon replaced by consternation as it became evident that this act had obviously initiated some sort of internal combustion. Hardly had the thought entered her head when the blast knocked her off her feet and sent her flying backwards towards the unknown darkness behind her. She collided with someone who was apparently attempting to stop her precipitous flight and she hit the ground a moment later, half on top of her rescuer.  
  
When her eyes had recovered from the flare of light, and the dust had begun to settle, she took stock of several things. The beast was definitely dead. She was in a roomy cave. The firelight was emanating from hand torches. The hand torches were carried by a group of armed and armoured men, about forty strong, whose leader was approaching her even now. She sat up slowly, still a little disoriented from the shift and the fight and the blast and turned to thank the one who had broken her fall.  
  
Her gaze was met by a wolfish grin from a golden-eyed, raven-haired, alabaster-skinned warrior, whose three-clawed hands rested on her arms, supporting her still. She blinked a little at the vision and managed a "thank you" before struggling to her feet.  
  
As she dusted herself off, the man she'd assumed was the leader drew closer, and the other behind her got to his feet. "Identify yourself, woman!" snapped their leader. Freya paused momentarily in her dusting to fix him with a sharp stare. "Who sent you? Why did you interfere?"  
  
"Antaris," put in the pale-skinned man, calmly surveying the blood splattered cave walls, "of all your hair-brained schemes against my unlife, this one takes the cake. Only you would resurrect a blood demon of the ancient world to destroy me without checking if you could control it."  
  
"Silence, vampire," the other thundered, "I have not finished with you yet."  
  
Freya's blood ran cold at his words, and she turned to her erstwhile rescuer, appraising him anew. "You're a vampire?"  
  
"He's a poor excuse for one," Antaris interjected, "now state your purpose and alignment before I clap you in irons."  
  
"Show some courtesy, Sarafan," said the vampire, "she just saved your life." The creature took some pleasure in watching his enemy cringe and fluster.  
  
Freya, patently ignoring Antaris' questions, walked over to the pile of offal that had until recently been a massive demon. She looked vainly for the katana, pushing aside gristly lumps of flesh with the toe of her boot, but to all appearances, it seemed the sword had been incinerated along with the beast. Her only link to her home - gone. She cursed under her breath before returning to the two men.  
  
"Now why don't you two start with the introductions?" she asked sternly, noting a brief flicker of admiration from the vampire.  
  
"You will have to forgive my dear friend here," began the vampire, eliciting a meancing growl from Antaris, "he was on the other side of the door when courtesy was handed out." Freya could barely suppress a grin at the creature's taunting of his foe. "I am Raziel, first-born of the lieutenants of Kain and lord of the Razielim vampires. And I am at your service." He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers, his face lit by a fanged smile.  
  
Antaris' derisive snort jolted her attention from the leather-clad vampire, and she gave him an expectant stare.  
  
"I am Antaris, Lord of the Sarafan and keeper of the Key of Hebros. And you, lady?" he asked with exaggerated courtesy. As she opened her mouth to speak, a short, bearded, ancient man in a long brown robe came hobbling through the group of armed men, a massive leather-bound book clasped under one frail arm.  
  
"She is the P'ramma!"  
  
Antaris was incredulous - and highly miffed. This impudent harpy could not be their long-awaited deliverer. As for Freya, she was glad of the interruption, as she found herself desperately trying to remember her name. She was sure she'd known it when she arrived; after all, she'd known the katana was hers; but now it eluded her completely. Who she was, where she was from, how she'd got there were all facts shrouded in a deepening mist.  
  
The old man's wavering voice roused her from her musings. He was waggling a book excitedly under her nose, pointing repeatedly to a picture of a woman beheading a four-horned demon in a torchlit cave, surrounded by men in armour and one other single pale-skinned man. It was all a bit much. Freya sat down on a nearby rock, holding her head in her hands while the old man, who introduced himself as Cornelius, continued to jabber excitedly about prophecies and mysteries and "exciting times ahead".  
  
From what Freya gathered from the old man's lengthy and highly formal speech, the Sarafan were under the impression that a "deliverer" would one day arrive, who would solve ancient riddles left by their ancestors and lead them to victory over their enemy. Freya was far from convinced, especially when Conrnelius explained that the enemy in question was an entire race, and her concern turned to real doubt when he began to talk about the extermination of the "vampire plague".  
  
"I'm not sure that's why I'm here." she began  
  
"Of course it is!" Antaris put in, "You will aid us in our glorious quest to eliminate the vampire race and return this land to humans of pure blood."  
  
"What you're talking about isn't glory - it's genocide!" she retorted, fury barely held in check. Antaris rounded on her, weapon sliding quickly from its sheath. "Tell me now, woman - once and for all, do you fight for good or for evil?"  
  
"That's completely subjective!" replied Freya, momentarily questioning her own outspokenness - why on earth was she advocating the vampires? She shook her head as though to clear it and added, in a forcedly calmer tone, "Look, we're not going to figure all this out in one fell swoop," Antaris acknowledged this with a sarcastic smile, "But since for the time being I find myself in an unfamiliar place, with the only clue to my purpose here being your prophecies, I will go along with you and see what is to be learned."  
  
The vampire raised an eyebrow from where he leaned in apparent nonchalance against the cave wall, but said nothing.  
  
"Very well," said Antaris, watching with mild reproof as Cornelius did a little dance of joy. "Prepare the charges, we will seal the vampire in here for eternity." The men instantly began to make ready the explosives. At that moment, something clicked in Freya's mind. Without knowing quite why, she had a niggling feeling that if she allowed the creature to be sealed in by these men, not only would she be allowing a great miscarriage of justice, but she would be sealing her own fate as well. And so it was that as Antaris turned to leave the cave, he found himself confronted by a most displeased P'ramma. "Something wrong?" He asked.  
  
Freya set her jaw. "I will accompany you back to the Sarafan stronghold on one condition." The Sarafan lord tilted his head questioningly. "The vampire goes free."  
  
Antaris was dumfounded, and made several attempts to speak, most of which made him resemble a goldfish and were obviously of great amusement to the vampire, who laughed heartily.  
  
"You lured him in here and made a bungled attempt on his life," Freya continued, "I think in the circumstances, he deserves a second chance." Despite Antaris' protests, Freya was adamant and, on Cornelius' advice, he decided not to anger her.  
  
With a mock bow to the Sarafan lord, Raziel sauntered in a leisurely manner toward the exit, Antaris' guards moving aside reluctantly and with much grumbling to let him pass. He paused as he drew level with Freya, a curious but grateful expression on his face, and said, "This will not be forgotten, 'P'ramma'." 


	2. Meridian

The journey back to Meridian, where the Sarafan had their main base, was a tense and tiresome one. On one side Freya had Cornelius constantly questioning her as to her intentions and plans for their future, as well as trying to find out about her past deeds, all of which she found largely irrelevant, as she was still completely ignorant of her own identity; On the other she had to endure a silently menacing Antaris, whose very presence seemed to warn of dire consequences should she turn out to be anything other than the promised "deliverer". It was with some relief that she witnessed the opening of a pair of large steel gates that led into what was evidently a large settlement. Cornelius' cries affirming her identity to the townsfolk, although annoying, at least meant that they had reached their destination. Maybe things would become clearer in time. Maybe all she needed was rest. Unfortunately, rest was something that would not be forthcoming for quite some time.  
  
Meridian itself was quite a spectacle. They had passed more and more of the outlying villages on their way here, most of which served to illustrate that these people were hardly at the forefront of technological evolution. This city, however, seemed almost a little world in itself, with a well- developed marketplace, temples, baths, a road system, and, in the grounds outside, irrigated fields and aqueducts. The people themselves were well- dressed, their garments every colour of the rainbow, in contrast to the drab brown garb of the villagers she'd encountered on the way. Some of these latter were even now milling around the market stalls, accompanied by herds of livestock of every conceivable size and colour, none of which she recognised. Freya found herself wondering, not for the first time that day, where in seven shades of hell she was.  
  
After a brief struggle with the overexcited crowds, the rest of the soldiers departed to their barracks, leaving her to continue onward unhindered to the main keep in the company of Antaris and Cornelius. Once inside, the gatekeeper closed the small inset door through which they had entered, and they continued on their way to the great hall. There they found food and drink laid out, the sight of which made Freya's stomach rumble. She wondered vaguely how long it had been since she'd eaten, and tried to recall her last meal, hoping that by association the thought would reveal something of her past. This having failed, she set about filling her stomach with the great variety of foodstuffs she found on the rough wooden table before her. She took time between munchings to take stock of her surroundings. The hall itself was constructed of clay-coloured stone blocks, while the walls were hung with tapestries depicting bloody battles, coronations and hunting scenes. A roaring fire lent the room some extra cheer, while thickly woven rugs in dark greens and browns took the chill off the floor, but gave the unfortunate impression that the ground was pitted with stagnant ponds. Before she had time to reflect on the strangeness of that particular observation, a rough voice caught her attention.  
  
"So, P'ramma," began Antaris through a mouthful of cheese and bread, "What exactly are your battle plans?"  
  
Freya managed to hold back the retort she wanted to utter; it probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell him she wasn't convinced she was the one they were looking for. So instead she simply said, "I want to get all the facts straight before I make any plans."  
  
Antaris paused mid-chew. "Facts? What facts? You have all the information you need! The vampire scum are invading our lands, stealing our children, blighting our crops and the time has come to take our revenge. That is where you come in. Facts be damned!"  
  
Cornelius threw a sidelong glance at the moist, masticated morsels of food that had made a daring escape from Antaris' mouth to the table, and ventured, "If it please the both of you, I can bring the P'ramma up to date on the happenings between the Sarafan and the Vampires over the last hundred years or so, and then..."  
  
Cornelius was cut short by the Sarafan lord's harsh, explosive laugh. "Ha! By the time you've finished telling your stories, the war will be over, old man."  
  
Freya did not much care for Antaris' disrespectful treatment of Cornelius. True enough, the old man did go on a bit, but that was par for the course for men in the later stages of life. She decided to intervene, speaking directly to Cornelius, "I would be most grateful for any insights you could give me, Cornelius." Her willingness to call him by name evidently put the old man at ease, and the look on Antaris' face made up for most of the hardships of the day. He mumbled a "More fool you." Before heaping some more food onto his already over-laden plate and swaggering out of the room.  
  
Freya heaved a sigh of relief and sank back in her padded chair, feet extended towards the hearth. It was late afternoon by now, and although the sun was still sending long reddish arrows of light across the floor towards her seat, the advance of evening was evident in the cooling air, and she was glad of the fire.  
  
"Where should I begin?" pondered Cornelius, half to himself. "The siege of the Wain Valleys? The Blood Wars?"  
  
"No," replied Freya, suddenly decisive, "Begin by telling me the history of that book you have."  
  
"The Gaminged?" he asked indicating its cover. At her affirmation, he continued, "Very well; it was almost a millennium ago that a sage translated texts left to us by the original Sarafan. These men were the first warrior priests, born of necessity to fight the upsurgence of the vampire nation under the leadership of Kain. The knowledge contained in those texts was written in an ancient language which is no longer spoken amongst us humans, but the translation was passed down from generation to generation then collected in our current language, along with copies of all the original illustrations, in this very book. I never let it out of my sight!" he chuckled, touching the side of his nose and winking.  
  
Freya was intrigued. If the book he possessed had some little information about her arrival, maybe the original texts held more: maybe the priest who translated them had thought information about her past superfluous and not included it. "Do these original texts still exist?"  
  
Cornelius looked puzzled for a moment. "Of course they still exist - they are part of Sarafan heritage!"  
  
"Great!" she exclaimed, half rising from her seat. "Can you show them to me?"  
  
Cornelius was a little surprised at her enthusiasm. "In time, yes. They are not kept here, but in a temple some miles outside the city. We could go in the morning," he suggested brightly.  
  
Freya sat back down, disgruntled.  
  
"Although," he continued, "you probably wouldn't be able to read them."  
  
Freya had a flash of insight that was as frustrating as it was complete. She knew other languages. Lots of them. It was one of her particular skills. She knew it as surely as she knew she could walk. She could speak French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese and Swedish, as well as being able to read Latin, Sanskrit, Cuneiform and Ogham.  
  
She still couldn't remember her name, though.  
  
"I don't think that'll be a problem, somehow." She sighed, indicating that Cornelius should continue with his history lesson.  
  
So Cornelius told her of the bloody feud that had raged between the two races since time immemorial, of how Kain, the Master Vampire had recruited a number of Lieutenants, given them their own lands to hold, and used them to instil fear into the local human population. The main point of contention and focus for all hostilities, from what Freya could work out, was territory, and with every word the old man uttered, she was assailed by an uncomfortable feeling that she should know all this - that it was as written history that she had failed to recall. Nevertheless, it seemed her role in the feud was clear; The Vampire attacks were slowly but surely chipping away at the Sarafan empire, and unless something was done soon, they were in danger of losing their foothold on the scant fertile lands remaining in Nosgoth.  
  
A thundering crash interrupted Cornelius' monologue, bringing both of them to their feet. A moment later the door to the hall smashed open, rebounding with a judder off the inside wall, and Antaris, wearing most of his dinner in his beard, ran in backwards, closely followed by a group of terrified servants. Freya made a quick scan of the room, hoping to locate something that might be used as a weapon, and grabbed a shoulder-height cast-iron candlestick from the fireplace. As yet she had no idea what was chasing them, but if this morning's demon was anything to go by, she wanted to be prepared.  
  
As the panicked crowd began to disperse into the great hall, most of them finding places to hide along the way, the cause of their terror came into view. The doorway was filled with heavily armed men dressed in black leather armour, each bearing the same insignia. That they were vampires there was no doubt, as was evidenced by the bared fangs, deathly pallor and general air of undeath that accompanied them. It took longer than Freya would have liked to reach the door, as she'd decided it was not the best idea to vault the table with a five-foot candlestick, so by the time she reached the pack, they had already engaged Antaris and the gatekeeper. Her first thought was to stop any more of them pouring into the already compromised hall, so, on seeing a large wooden rack to the left of the door, she called to a couple of the servants to push it into the doorway whilst they held the rest of the vampires at bay. They overcame their hesitation at Antaris' threat that he'd personally feed them to their "guests" if they didn't get a move on, and before long, the entrance was well and truly blocked, leaving the rest of the enemy howling in frustration on the other side.  
  
Freya now turned her attention to those who had already slipped through, tripping the nearest with a wide sweep of the three-armed candelabra, and taking advantage of his stunned state to bludgeon him with the base before swiping his sword. It was surprisingly light and manoeuvrable for its length, and she lost no time in testing its edge on the prone vampire's neck. She gave a satisfied grunt at the result before turning to help the Sarafan lord, who was even now frantically attempting to fend off two of the fiends with a large dinner plate and a steak knife. She managed to impale one from behind, feeling slightly ashamed for the briefest of moments until the other turned on her with heart-stopping speed, sword raised for the kill. Fortunately, Antaris joined in again, and between the two of them, she hacking at the creature's side with her pilfered weapon and he alternately bashing it on the head with his plate and stabbing repeatedly at it with his knife, they managed to subdue it.  
  
By this time, the Keep Guards had been alerted and were rapidly dealing with the remainder outside the hall door. Antaris ordered the rack removed, and soon both he and Freya had rejoined the fray. Even without the extra reinforcements, the fight would have been over quickly, as the numbers were far less than they had first thought. However, there was one who simply would not die; a crossbowman had filled his chest with bolts, a small hand axe had been buried in his shoulder, and someone had evidently laid his thigh open to the bone, but still he fought on. Even now, he was backing away towards the window at the end of the corridor, still beset by as many guards as could fit side by side in the narrow passageway, launching occasional attacks to keep them at a distance. Eventually, he reached the window and stopped, giving the entire assembly one hate-filled glare.  
  
"These lands will be ours again, humans, and the treasures you stole from us will return to their rightful owners." As he spoke, he climbed awkwardly onto the window ledge and bashed out the panes of glass with his elbow. "Your streets will run red with the blood of your children, your land will become fallow and no-one will remember that the Sarafan existed! We will have vengeance for the Vampire blood spilled here this day, ten times." Whatever he had been about to say was cut short by the arrival of a crossbow bolt in the centre of his forehead.  
  
Antaris swung around to see Freya standing at the end of the passageway, crossbow still raised. "He was starting to get boring." She explained with a shrug. 


	3. The Sun Temple

When all the bodies and debris had been cleared from the great hall, the outer perimeter checked, and lashings of garlic laid over every window and door, the atmosphere finally returned to some semblance of calm. Freya took the opportunity to question Antaris as to how the vampires had gained ingress in the first place.  
  
The Sarafan lord seemed unperturbed. "Hmm? Oh, we think the holy wards at the front of the keep must have failed. Never fear, we've had the priests reinforce them already."  
  
Freya was incensed. "They came in through your front door and you haven't bothered to investigate?" With such gross stupidity within the leadership of these people it was a wonder they hadn't been exterminated already. "Have you posted extra guards?"  
  
Antaris lowered the tankard he'd been about to drink from, and asked "What for? They're hardly going to attack again tonight, are they? Not one of them got out alive. Heh, that'll teach 'em to mess with me." A wary look at Freya's tight-lipped countenance forced him to add, "I mean, us."  
  
Freya let the line of questioning drop, making a mental note to arrange for extra vigilance over the next few nights. She sat back in her chair and raised her own tankard to her lips. Whatever else these people might be lacking in terms of civilized advancement, there was certainly nothing wrong with their ale. "So which clan did our guests tonight belong to?" She asked, more to break the silence than anything else.  
  
"Turelim." He replied laconically. Then, seeing her expectant face, he sighed resignedly, "Their lands are to the north, their closest holding about two days' ride from here. Their leader is Turel, one of Kain's Lieutenants, and to my knowledge they have never ventured this far south before." He took another swig before asking with exaggerated patience, "Anything else?"  
  
His last comment gave her food for thought, and she quaffed the last drop of the rich home brew before standing up, stretching and replying, "Yes. Where's my bed?"  
  
On Cornelius' instructions, a massive bedchamber had been made ready. It was apparently reserved for visiting nobility, and boasted the only four- poster bed in Meridian. A fire was burning cheerily in the hearth as she entered, and she noted that some water and light refreshments had been left on a bedside table. Freya thanked Cornelius profusely, as he had insisting on accompanying her to check that all was to her satisfaction, and it was only with the promise that she'd see him first thing and that he could continue his story on the way to the temple that she managed to get him to leave.  
  
Despite her exhaustion, sleep was an unwilling bedfellow, so she eventually resigned herself to sitting at the leaded window, surveying the silvered landscape below. A thousand thoughts were milling around her head, obstinately refusing to settle themselves into any kind of order.  
  
As far as she could recall, her memories began at the moment when the snorting demon had swung at her in the cave which, she had learned, was part of an underground complex on disputed land. Before that, her entire existence (which she assumed from her size and shape numbered some twenty years) was a blur. The only thing she was certain of was that wherever she had lived her life previous to this morning, it wasn't here. For a start, here there was no television, no cars, no burgers, no skyscrapers, no liquid soap and to her chagrin, no plumbed toilets. The bizarre thing was that she wasn't as bothered as she thought she would be. She realised belatedly that her reasons for finding the Sarafan texts were solely to discover her own identity, not to look for a way back home.  
  
Her thoughts then turned to the remainder of the day's events; her first impression of both the Sarafan and Vampire races, and how that had changed in a matter of hours; her growing dislike of the Sarafan lord (although she had to admit he'd been pretty handy with his dinner plate); her realisation that she could speak other languages; and through it all, the insignia that had been emblazoned on the armour of the vampire attackers - if she could just remember where she'd seen that before... It was then that other niggling thoughts began to surface. How was it that she knew how to wield a sword? Or ride a horse? Or use a fifteen-pound candelabra as an effective weapon?  
  
She let her forehead fall against the cool glass of the window with a sigh. Maybe the memory loss was temporary. She crossed her fingers. Then her toes for good measure. She was just about to see what other parts of her body she could cross when, from out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement from the courtyard below. A hooded man was creeping stealthily from shadow to shadow towards a small postern door on the left-hand side of the square. As she watched, the man checked his environs and rapped three times on the stout wood, looking all around him again as he waited. The door opened a crack, spilling a triangle of yellowish candlelight onto the cobbled floor outside, and a hand emerged. The hooded man quickly handed over a scroll, receiving a small pot or phial in exchange, and the door closed again with a decisive click. The man once again became a furtive shadow, and was soon lost from sight.  
  
As intrigued as she was, sleep had finally worked its way from her bones to her mind, and, after all, how was she to know that this was not the way the Sarafan got all their intelligence? With a final stretch, Freya executed a less than dignified belly-flop onto the small mountain of blankets in front of her, and was soon asleep, face down, snoring slightly. The last image to run through her mind before sleep took her was of a pair of golden eyes, shining with faint luminosity in flickering torchlight.  
Freya was awakened by a shaft of sunlight falling across her face. She opened her eyes slowly and was assailed at once by that familiar feeling that she didn't know where she was. She sat up, naked, bleary eyed and tousle-haired and tried to recall the previous night's events. She was in a four-poster, so she'd definitely not stayed at Antonio's (she was still of the firm opinion that guys that age were far too old for bunk-beds). There was a real fireplace, so that ruled out most of the other guys she had relations with. She was just thinking that she was going to have to stop these random, drunken encounters when yesterday's events arrived back in her mind with a thump. Well, at least she'd recalled the name of one of her boyfriends. Not that it helped. She surveyed the room, noting at once that fresh clothes had been laid out, and the sword she'd stolen from the vampire had been cleaned and set to one side of the fireplace. She was glad of the clothes at least. The thought of spending another day in her already less-than-fresh kendo gi was not exactly appealing.  
  
Throwing back the covers, she rose and inspected the clothes. There was a variety; she had a choice between a pale pink floor-length shift (she wrinkled her nose in disgust), or some soft, brown leather trousers and a dark red shirt. Minutes later, she fitted her stolen sword (which she'd decided was some form of scimitar) into the clasp on her belt and was making her way downstairs to meet Cornelius.  
  
Having failed to find the old man after several minutes of searching, she encountered Antaris in a small room that served him as a study and queried him on Cornelius' whereabouts.  
  
"The old man seldom rises before ten bells." Replied the Sarafan in surly tones. "What do you want with him this time of the morning, anyway?"  
  
Freya did her best to maintain a civil tone. "We were supposed to be heading to the Sun Temple to look at the old texts."  
  
Antaris stood stock-still. He glanced from the paper in his hand to Freya's inquiring face and remained silent for such a long time she wondered if he was going to respond. "Well. why don't you get a head start on him? I understand you're quite keen to see these . documents for yourself, and Cornelius doesn't travel too well these days. It'd be evening by the time you got there."  
  
Freya frowned slightly, wondering why he was being so helpful.  
  
"I'll send him after you as soon as he wakes," he assured her brightly. "Just take this map and." he rummaged in a desk drawer, ".this key, and you should have no trouble."  
  
Freya glanced at both items. The map did indeed show the location of the Sun Temple, a short distance to the east of Meridian, and the key itself was formed with a rising sun at one end.  
  
"If you speak to Morris, the gatekeeper, he'll ensure you have a speedy mount to take you there." Antaris added.  
  
Freya blinked a couple of times, muttered a slightly confused "thanks", and headed out in the direction of the stables. As she left, the Sarafan Lord's forced smile faded and his mouth set into a grim line. He carefully buried the paper under a mound of others and returned to his reading.  
  
Freya had no trouble obtaining both the horse and some supplies for the journey. Most people by now had heard Cornelius' theory about her identity and were only too eager to help. It was with some embarrassment that she exited the main gate surrounded by a small army of well-wishers and small children throwing flowers, turning at the last moment to assure them that she'd be back by nightfall.  
  
"Bring us back a vampire head!" called one man.  
  
Freya shook her head in disbelief.  
  
"Or any part, really," added another, "We're not fussy!"  
  
She wheeled the horse around and rode with all speed to the valley entrance. Only there did she start to feel more relaxed.  
  
The Sun Temple, as Antaris had promised, was not at all difficult to find. It stood atop a long low hill next to a bend in the river that flowed down to the city itself. A large rising sun with rays of stone protruded from the roof of the building, leaving no doubt at all as to the temple's identity. The glade was almost preternaturally quiet as she approached. No birds sang, no crickets chirped, in stark contrast to the rest of her journey, which had made her realise just how noisy the countryside could be. Even the babbling of the river here seemed muted.  
  
However, at a cursory glance, nothing else appeared out of the ordinary, and so she dismounted and approached the main entrance. She was pleasantly surprised when the key easily opened the lock, and began to think that maybe she had misjudged the Sarafan lord; maybe his gruff, discourteous manner was just a way of hiding his true personality. She gave the matter no further thought as she pushed open the heavy oaken door to reveal a bright, sunlight chamber.  
  
The room was lit by means of a single skylight with a huge glass dome - a piece of excellent workmanship considering the current level of development - which reflected light from burnished copper and gold orbs along the length of the room. The walls themselves were covered in friezes and pictures, mostly depicting lone Sarafan knights fighting hordes of vampires. She raised an eyebrow at the artist's storytelling style, and continued on into the chamber. Cornelius had said that the texts were located beneath the temple, so logically there had to be a staircase or trapdoor somewhere on this floor. She began a systematic search along one wall, keeping eyes open for anything that might suggest a way down. Before long, however, her attention was drawn to one of the carvings mid-way down the room, which seemed to represent a Porsche. Freya did a quick double- take, leaning in closer to inspect what turned out to be a rather clever almost three-dimensional rendering of a 911, complete with spoiler and a couple of cartoon-like speed lines at the back for good measure.  
  
"What the hell is this doing here?" she wondered aloud.  
  
"I was just about to ask the same question." Came a rich, deep voice from behind her. 


	4. The Underground Cavern

Freya whirled at the sound, hand going automatically to the hilt of the scimitar. The entrance to the temple was crowded with black-clad vampires, swords drawn, and in front of them, having just addressed her, the Vampire lord she'd met on her arrival on Nosgoth. Until then, she hadn't heard a sound.  
  
"You are trespassing on Vampire territory," he continued, a hungry smile on his lips.  
  
Freya frowned in confusion. "The Sun Temple belongs to the Sarafan. . ."  
  
"No longer," replied Raziel, stepping forward. She noted with interest that he walked straight through the patch of direct sunlight under the dome, whilst his guards remained close to the edges of the room, ever in the shadows. "As of yesterday, the lands from here to the sea belong to us - as you well know." On seeing her puzzled look, he continued. "Word was sent last night to all major Sarafan holdings, including the keep at Meridian."  
  
Everything fell into place, and Freya gave a mirthless laugh, "Then Antaris might have mentioned it before he sent me here this morning."  
  
Raziel chuckled. "What have you done to fall foul of the Sarafan Lord?"  
  
Freya shot him a meaningful glance, and understanding dawned. "Ah. Your act of mercy in the cave."  
  
He took another step towards her, making Freya realise for the first time just how imposing a figure he was. The vampire stood well over six feet tall in his booted feet; his physique, his accoutrements of the blackest leather and the deep red cloak that hung over one arm adding to the impression that he had been born to fight. It was his face, however, that was the most unsettling. Considering that this was one of Kain's favoured sons, and by all accounts an ancient and powerful force that had plagued Nosgoth's human population for centuries, little or no evidence of corruption could be seen in the smooth planes of his visage. His natural expression was one of bland detachment, and only the lupine gold-tinged eyes betrayed anything of his true nature. They were hypnotic. Deadly. Alluring. A person could get lost in them.  
  
"Well, I think in the circumstances that it would be . . . rude . . . of me not to return the favour."  
  
Despite her relief at his words, his saturnine grin was doing nothing to put her at ease. "That's very kind of you."  
  
"On one condition."  
  
Freya blanched visibly, tightening her grip on her sword. Raziel found this most amusing.  
  
"What were you looking for?"  
  
There was no way in hell that she was going to tell him. If the texts did contain the information she sought, they might well describe a means of returning to Earth. The image of the Porsche on the wall only fuelled this suspicion, and the very thought of letting hordes of lethal, bloodthirsty vampires loose back home was enough to strengthen her resolve.  
  
"Something to jog my memory." she replied. It was only a half-lie. Raziel frowned and she added, by way of explanation, "I have amnesia - I remember nothing before fighting the demon yesterday."  
  
The Vampire Lord considered this. It seemed possible that she was telling the truth; it was not unknown for some of the more ancient demons to leave their victors cursed, but he had a feeling she was hiding something. He looked her up and down, his gaze eventually coming to rest on the scimitar attached to her belt. A moment later he had snatched it from her side and placed its point beneath under her chin, his face contorted into a mask of rage.  
  
"Explain this!"  
  
Freya looked down her nose at the gleaming blade that was digging into her chin then up at the vampire's face. She swallowed audibly. "I took it from a dead body."  
  
"Did you kill him?" Raziel's tone warned her that her reply might well mean the difference between her walking out of here and being cleaned off the walls, but there really was only one answer.  
  
"It was him or me."  
  
Whatever Raziel's response to this might have been was cut short by the sounding of a horn outside the temple.  
  
"Sarafan!" shouted one of the guards at the door. Freya lost no time in taking advantage of Raziel's distraction to flick the blade harmlessly to one side and dodge around his back to stand behind one of the pillars that circled the central dome. By now, Sarafan warriors, clad in gleaming silver armour, were pouring in through the temple door, hacking violently at anything remotely vampiric that stood in their path. It was going to be a massacre: the fledgelings were unable to move out of the way because of the pool of searing sunlight in the centre of the chamber, and given the time of day, most of them were far from being at their best. Antaris waded through the centre of the fight, clad in armour that was larger and more ostentatious than any of his fellows'. It also seemed to be glowing red and gold in places, the light intensifying according to his proximity to any one vampire. Never one for keeping quiet, his every blow was punctuated by a "Back, undead swine!" or a "Your days are numbered, bloodsuckers!"  
  
She risked taking her eyes off the struggle for a split-second to locate Raziel, who was standing in the circle of light, batting his fledgelings aside whenever they came too close to what would surely spell their flaming demise. Freya found this behaviour puzzling and slightly out-of-character, but her thoughts were shortly distracted by Antaris, who called out, "This way, P'ramma!"  
  
Despite her misgivings, this was the best route of escape, and, not being one to hold a grudge in the face of a rescue, Freya dived through the opening the Sarafan knights had made and stumbled into the sunlight a moment later, alive, unscathed and absolutely no nearer to finding out who she was.  
  
The first person to confront her outside was Cornelius, who was pacing back and forth on the grassy verge, massive tome under one arm as usual, muttering under his breath about 'headstrong girls'. On seeing her emerge from the temple he hobbled over to her and waggled one wizened, long-nailed finger at her in reproof.  
  
"The lands hereabouts are disputed, and you never know who's going to be in control of them from one day to the next. It's lucky for you Antaris found out where you'd gone in time." Cornelius admonished.  
  
Freya's furious retort was cut off as the door to the temple slammed shut, and she turned to see Antaris turn the key in the lock, then motion to one of the priests outside to erect a holy ward at the door to deny the vampires passage.  
  
"Let's see how the undead like being sealed in the Sun Temple!" he exclaimed with great good humour, inciting the blood-stained guards to join in with a victory cry. His smile faded as he turned from the door - from where there could already be heard the frantic beating of vampire flesh on wood - to regard the P'ramma, whose lip was curled in a sneer.  
  
"That was too close, P'ramma." Said Cornelius. "Next time you go off on a jaunt, remember to tell Antaris exactly where you're going!"  
  
Freya and Antaris exchanged loaded glances that spoke of the coming confrontation. "Don't worry, Cornelius, I will."  
Raziel watched as the woman made a dive for the exit and freedom, making a mental note to find out which of Turel's chosen had fallen to the P'ramma. The scimitar itself - a gift given only to the Lieutenants' elite guard - would be enough to identify its owner, later. He hefted the weapon as the Sarafan drove the fight forward, and used it in an alternating pattern to slash at the enemy one moment and push his own men aside with the flat of the blade the next. He should have known better than to come to this particular temple with such young fledges. They were a liability.  
  
He hardly had time to berate himself before the temple door closed with an ominous clang, and the key turned in the lock with an audible click. The fledges were panic-stricken. It was clear even now that as the sun continued its journey through the heavens, more and more light would be focused through the dome and off the reflecting walls, until the entire chamber was filled with the concentrated glare of the midday sun's rays. It was a death trap, and would be their tomb if he didn't act soon. Assuming from the fledgelings' failed attempts to break down the door that the Sarafan had already sealed it with magic, he began to look around for an alternate escape route.  
  
His first thought was to check to see what it was that had attracted the P'ramma's attention, and on close inspection of the wall, he found a single bizarre symbol that didn't seem to correspond with anything around it. It was raised from the wall by some 2 inches, which was what induced him to push it. It sank into the wall with a firm click and almost instantly, a low rumbling began, barely audible over the half-angry, half-frightened roaring of the fledgelings, and an opening appeared in the floor not two feet from where Raziel stood. Suspecting that the Sarafan would become suspicious if the din stopped too soon, he used the next few minutes to locate and ignite a torch to aid their descent into the dark stairwell that was now fully visible from the main chamber. Before long, the sound of departing hooves came to his sensitive ears, and he called his men to order.  
  
The descent of the winding stone stairs seemed to take hours, and Raziel was fairly sure from what he knew of Nosgoth's geography that the downwards- sloping path they were now following led beneath the river bed and off to the north; where it might emerge, he could not guess. The cavern into which they had wandered must be immense, as even with his own keen night vision he was unable to make out the roof or the far wall. He raised the brand above his head to peer into the deepening blackness ahead and discerned that the light was reflecting off an underground lake. What was even more surprising was that there was a small boat bobbing gently on the surface of the Stygian waters. The fledgelings eyed the craft suspiciously, staying well away from the water's edge and bickering quietly to relieve their tension. Here lay a choice - the path they were following led past the lake and off to the north, where it began to ascend. Raziel assumed from the draughts of cooler, fresher air that emanated from that direction that it led to the outside. However, there had to be a reason for the presence of the boat, and, never one to pass up an opportunity for exploration and adventure, he decided to take a look.  
  
Turning to the group of fledgelings before him, he said. "You will continue along this path until you find the exit. If daylight persists, await nightfall before venturing out."  
  
"Will you not accompany us, Lord Raziel?" asked one.  
  
The Vampire Lord turned on him with a wicked grin, saying, "Since you crave my company so much, you will be the one to row the boat!"  
  
The fledge, Isca, swallowed hard, casting a terrified glance at the pitch- black waters, and nodded his understanding, meanwhile mentally kicking himself for being so outspoken. Much as he feared the freezing/scalding embrace of the water, he feared his lord more.  
  
Without further ado, Raziel clambered into the small craft, causing it to rock and sway alarmingly, and sat waiting expectantly for the fledgeling to summon up the courage to join him. Once inside, Raziel handed the shaking youngster the oars and said "Serve me well this day and you will be rewarded for your loyalty, stripling." This did much to embolden Isca, and he set about the task with renewed vigour.  
  
Raziel had almost given up hope of finding anything in this cold, silent, desolate blackness when a glint from up ahead caught his eye, and he directed the craft towards its source. A few moments later the pair were climbing ashore onto a bed of shingle that seemed to glow with a faint luminescence of its own. Raziel raised the low-burned torch and managed to make out a number of stout wooden chests, stacked neatly against the rear wall of the cavern. Realising that the torch now had a limited lifespan, they lost no time in prying open the nearest of the chests. Raziel was fairly confident that they would contain something of great value; otherwise why go to all the trouble of secreting them in such a place? His enthusiasm waned however, when the first box gave up its secret with a groan of ancient wood, to reveal nothing but gold jewellery and coins. Vampires had little need of such things.  
  
The second and third chests held more of the same, but the fourth, which opened with a puff of stale air, indicating that it had been well-sealed, was filled to the brim with yellowing parchments and leather-bound books. At a cursory glance, Raziel concluded that they were not written in any language spoken on Nosgoth today, or, from what he recalled, at any point in the last thousand years. Maybe Kain would be able to make something of them; he would be duty-bound to show these to the Master in any event.  
  
A few hours later, the two were trudging up a long, winding, rocky path towards the cave exit, the huge wooden chest settled comfortably on the fledgeling's broad shoulder. The path seemed to end at a large metal grille about forty feet ahead, and although Raziel and Isca would have no trouble squeezing through the bars, the chest was obviously not going to fit. The Vampire Lord had just stood back to ponder this new problem when a pale face topped by night-black hair appeared suddenly through the bars, fanged mouth grinning a welcome.  
  
"Greetings, brother! What are you doing in my sewer?" 


	5. Turel's Domain

Turel's castle occupied a commanding position atop a rocky promontory that jutted out into the sea on the northern coast. The location had been chosen for many reasons, not least of which was the vast network of catacombs the extended for miles in every direction through the fault- ridden bedrock at its base; it was into one of these disused tunnels that Raziel and Isca had wandered, hot on the heels of the group of fledgelings.  
  
Turel had obligingly arranged for the middle bar of the grille to be removed so that the chest could be brought easily to the surface without risking damage to the ancient writings within, and now he and Raziel were relaxing and catching up on recent events in the high-ceilinged chamber he favoured for entertaining guests. On passing his brother a goblet of warmed blood, Turel's eyes lighted on the scimitar attached to his belt.  
  
"Isn't that one of mine?" Having ascertained that the scimitar did indeed belong to one of Turel's elite, Raziel handed it over so that he might identify its owner.  
  
"It was Bered's." Turel sighed. "I had high hopes for him - trained him myself." He put the gleaming scimitar down on the table and added, "What a waste." Seemingly dismissing the matter, he said, "Your fledges tell me the Sarafan laid an ambush for you today."  
  
Raziel paused, the pewter goblet he held in one massive claw inches from his lips, and gave his brother a confused stare. "That's not the way I remember it."  
  
"Come now, brother. It's obvious - they lure you and your men inside by sending in a lone woman, then while you're distracted, attack you from behind." He regarded his elder critically. "Maybe Kain should remind you of the meaning of 'strategy'."  
  
"I need no lessons from him." The other retorted. Turel's eyes widened at his tone, but Raziel went on. "I think the Sarafan Lord is less than pleased at having his position of power usurped by a woman." He stood up and refilled his goblet. "Especially one who shows mercy to our kind."  
  
Turel chuckled. "Ah yes. Your fledges told me of this too. Have you not learned in all this time that women cannot be trusted? It was probably a ploy, arranged by the Sarafan from the moment you set foot in that cave. Likely she was a Sarafan harlot, paid to trick you into. . . "  
  
"She decimated a blood demon."  
  
Turel's surprise was limited to the beast itself. "Really? I thought they were extinct."  
  
"Antaris managed to resurrect one." Raziel grinned at the memory. "Only he didn't anticipate it turning on them too."  
  
Turel dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Did you feed from it?"  
  
Raziel regarded his brother as though he had just asked whether he'd like to join him in parading in front of their troops in hooped skirts and feather bonnets.  
  
"Its blood is potent," explained Turel, "it is rumoured that a vampire who feeds from one of these beasts may gain great power."  
  
"Unfortunately," said Raziel, setting his goblet down and glancing towards the open window, "there wasn't much left of it after their P'ramma finished with it." At Turel's questioning look, he added, "It exploded."  
  
At Turel's insistence that even a small amount of the beast's essence would be sufficient, Raziel began to give the idea some serious thought. The cave system lay between Turel's castle and his own fortress - it seemed that there was nothing to be lost by stopping off there on the way home. And also there was the pressing matter of the documents in the chest; he needed to show them to Kain as soon as possible. Having decided that this small detour would not detain him overmuch, he politely took his leave of his brother and made off with all speed for the cave system on the other side of the river.  
  
Turel watched his brother's departure from his open window, a curious smile on his cruel lips.  
It was only from a desire not to demoralise Cornelius as well as Antaris' men that Freya managed to keep a tight lip on the way back to Meridian. She considered the morning's events as they rode along: Antaris had sent her to the temple knowing full well that the vampires had taken control and that she would likely not come back alive. Then, when Cornelius awoke and was unable to find her, Antaris had conveniently "guessed" where she had gone, as Cornelius already suspected and he wasn't a quick enough liar to come up with a better plan. At the temple itself, Antaris had made a great show of playing the hero in front of his men, and, what was worse, she now had Cornelius regarding her as a headstrong child without an ounce of common sense. If any option other than returning to Meridian in the company of Antaris had presented itself, she would have taken it in a flash. And to add insult to injury, the Sun Temple would probably be off- limits for quite some time until they were sure that the vampires inside had perished, which meant yet another delay to finding those damned texts.  
  
It was not until much later that day that Freya had a chance to ask for a moment alone with Antaris. His protestations that he was far too busy were drowned out by a barrage of misplaced support from his men, who construed the obvious when Freya asked them to leave so she could personally thank the Sarafan Lord for his daring rescue. Her cheeky grin as she waved the last of the inappropriately gesturing soldiers out of the door was replaced by a look of red-faced rage as she rounded on the Sarafan Lord.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're playing at?"  
  
Antaris shrugged. "I don't know what you mean."  
  
Freya was exasperated, "If you have a problem with me, confront me. Let's get this out in the open."  
  
"I had no idea the vampires had taken over the Sun Temple." Antaris stated flatly.  
  
"Liar! You had the information in your hand when you sent me!"  
  
"That was something else. . ." replied the Sarafan, inspecting his boots.  
  
"You can't even lie convincingly, can you?" Freya demanded.  
  
"I shouldn't have to lie," he retorted, rising to the bait, "I shouldn't have to answer to you at all."  
  
So that was it. Freya's mood calmed as understanding took over from anger. "You're afraid that I'm going to replace you in the chain of command."  
  
"The thought had occurred to me." He admitted.  
  
She sighed and sat down opposite him with her anger rapidly evaporating. She chose her words carefully, aware that what she said next might influence not only all their future interactions, but also the likelihood of her meeting with any other unfortunate 'accidents'. "That has never been my intention, Antaris. I still don't know what I've been sent here to do, but whatever it is, I could certainly use the help and support of the Sarafan Lord - I want us to work together. There's no reason why we can't share whatever tasks - and whatever glories - lie ahead."  
  
Antaris nodded acquiescence and took another sip from his tankard, his thoughts his own.  
Raziel reached the cave at around midnight. The night was cool and dark, reminiscent of the grave, and the fledgelings were consequently in much better spirits. He enjoined all except for Isca to await him outside, as the task should be the work of but a few moments. As he left, he warned them to be on the lookout for Sarafan, or any other stray humans for that matter, as he was starting to feel the first poignant pangs of need that heralded the oncoming relentless thirst.  
  
As they approached the centre of the cavern, Isca's eyes grew wide in wonder as he witnessed for himself the gore-splattered blast sphere that encompassed walls, floor and ceiling of the massive chamber. He whistled softly under his breath before turning to find out what his lord was doing. To his great surprise, Raziel seemed to be scooping up some of the demon's congealed blood (or possibly a fragment of intestines) into a small bottle. Remembering the trouble in which his mouth had landed him earlier that day, Isca bit down the obvious question that rose unbidden to his mind, and instead surveyed the rest of the scene in mock vigilance, humming quietly to himself.  
  
Raziel allowed himself a small smile. It must be killing the boy not to allow free reign to his natural curiosity. Still, if it taught him to keep his mouth shut at crucial moments, the lesson was worth learning. He paused in his scooping as his claw connected with something metal that scraped along the cave floor as he pushed it. Intrigued, he slid his hand deeper into the putrefying, half-cooked mounds of fatty flesh, ignoring the sickening squelching sounds that ensued, until his groping fingers grasped the object firmly enough for him to wrestle it free. It came loose with a further gut-wrenching noise akin to that of ripping flesh, and, after giving it a brief shake which caused more of the loose meat to fall to the ground with wet splattering sounds, Raziel recognised it for what it was; the P'ramma's sword.  
  
Even in the poor light he could see that the weapon was unique, and he took time to clean the worst of the offal from the hilt and blade, his original task forgotten for the moment. This done, he raised it before him, squinting down its length first from one angle then another, impressed with the skill and precision with which the curved blade had been forged. He tested its edge with his thumb-claw and grunted in approval as the keen blade drew a single droplet of dark blood before the wound sealed itself. His eyes moved next to the design on the hilt, which forced a puzzled frown to his brows. The pommel was formed in the shape of a demon's head, its clawed hands clasping a black orb, over which it presided with red eyes and a sharp-toothed grin. Its glossy, bat-like wings extended half-way down, and under them coiled the creature's serpentine body, winding around the hilt to terminate just short of the cross-guard, which was crafted in the universally-recognised symbol of chaos.  
  
Raziel turned to Isca, whose jaw was practically on his chest, and ordered him to search for the scabbard. It was not a pleasant job, but fortunately, Isca came across the required item after only a minimum of exposure to the putrescent sludge. The blade slid easily into its sheath with a solid metallic clunk, and the vampire held the arm up once more to inspect it as a whole. The niggling doubt that had been gnawing at his mind as he examined the hilt returned, stronger now that he could see that the entire thing was jet black from end to end.  
  
This was not a Sarafan weapon.  
Author's notes  
  
1. If anyone is ever wondering where I got the inspiration for the ickyness in the cave where Raziel finds the sword - I cleaned my bathroom last night.  
  
2. I wrote the description of the sword whilst looking at it. I luuuurve my katana.  
  
3. If I misspell vampires as "campires" one more time while I'm writing this, I'm going to have to write a fan fic about Kain and Raziel in pink 70's ruffle shirts, doing the hustle to "Dancing Queen". 


	6. Territory

Over the next few days, Freya spent a great deal of time in Cornelius' vast library, absorbing as much information as humanly possible about the current state of affairs between themselves and the Vampire Clans. As a consequence, she saw very little of the Sarafan Lord, a small mercy for which she was quite grateful as the man had been surly and uncommunicative ever since their confrontation. However, in the interim there had been no other attempts on her life, so Freya judged the situation a vast improvement. At this moment she was reading from a tome the size of a small microwave that bore the grand title of "The Issuing of Formal Challenges; Intention, Reasoning and Methodology", which she would have recommended to the most ardent java addict as an excellent sedative.  
  
She was half-way to closing the book (which was probably going to constitute her exercise quota for the day) in favour of the even more enticing "Parades and Processions: A Study in Sarafan Celebration", when a footnote caught her eye. It pertained to the first time the Sarafan had challenged for land, and referred on to an entire chapter on the formalities of regaining lost territory.  
  
She turned to Cornelius, who was knee-deep in de-shelved tomes, muttering about people not putting things back in place, and beckoned to him with a winning smile. At her unspoken summons, he clambered over the nearest pile of musty, leather-covered volumes, an expectant look on his age-weathered face. Freya explained about the chapter she'd just digested before asking, "Does this practice still hold sway?"  
  
Cornelius, thrilled at being asked to elaborate on one of his favourite historical topics, launched into his reply with enthusiasm. "Indeed it does, P'ramma, and furthermore, the custom is well-respected by our vampire adversaries, who hold the old ways in high esteem." Freya twitched her eyebrows. "It is only natural that such ancient creatures should be bound by tradition." Cornelius explained.  
  
"Then . . . why have you not challenged for land before?"  
  
The old man sighed and trudged back towards his bookshelves. "Not since the days of Lord Roland have we seen the observance of those practices. Times have changed."  
  
"And they will again," vowed Freya grimly. "Cornelius, call a meeting of the Council," she commanded, rising from her chair and closing the book with a thump that echoed off the walls and raised a small simoon of dust. "We're going to get our land back."  
  
The P'ramma's call to council had caused quite a stir amongst council elders and warriors alike, as most people could not even remember the last time such a request had been made. Nevertheless, all those summoned answered the call, and that very evening found a most prestigious gathering making its way to the Great Hall, the buzz of conversation reflecting the curiosity of those assembled. When order had been established, Cornelius thanked everyone for coming and turned control of the proceedings over to Freya, who had not been slow to note the calculating glances afforded her by Antaris and his cronies.  
  
After a brief explanation of the information she had gleaned from the tome, Freya outlined her plan. The Sarafan Lord was not the only one to oppose the idea, deeming it a waste of men and valuable resources for the acquisition of some "poxy strip of land".  
  
Freya closed her eyes and counted to ten before responding. "Do you have any idea how little fertile ground is left to us? We cannot allow chunks of land along the northern seaboard to fall into vampire hands!" She motioned to Cornelius, who passed around maps showing Sarafan holdings etched in blue, while those recently lost to the Clans were outlined in red. "If the vampires are allowed to consolidate their grasp on the coastline, it could put an end to all trade with the northlands across the sea." Freya could see from the looks of dismay around the table that not one of them had realised the seriousness of their plight - the maps looked as though they'd been etched in blood. At length, General Thorin, acknowledged by all as the Sarafan Lord's right-hand man, looked up from his map, a look of sick fear written plainly on his features.  
  
"When do we begin?"  
  
The Sanctuary of the Clans stood offered its usual imposing welcome as Raziel approached it at dusk the following day. An unearthly aura of stony patience emanated from its hallowed walls as it stood silent and impassive in the dusky twilight. He carried with him the documents he had found on the shores of the subterranean lake, their knowledge still hidden from him despite repeated attempts to decipher them. The P'ramma's weapon he had left at this own abode, although he fully intended to inform Kain of its existence.  
  
A short search led him to the throne room where his sire sat, as was his wont at this hour, in the massive carved throne he had caused to be set with a sense of blasphemous irony at the foot of the Pillars of Nosgoth. His hand rested lightly in its customary position on the hilt of his sword, the ancient and mystical Soul Reaver, whose undulating blade glowed a dull orange in the light reflecting from iron braziers set at intervals around the immense circular chamber. Raziel crossed the threshold at Kain's bidding and approached the throne with his usual slow assured stride, pausing in the centre of the chamber to kneel in deference to his master.  
  
"And to what do I owe the honour?" growled Kain.  
  
The vampire raised his head and indicated the chest he had brought with him. "I came upon some texts in a cavern deep beneath the Sarafan Sun Temple." Kain looked askance at him. "I was unable to read them but I thought that they might not be beyond your understanding."  
  
Kain was perplexed. "Why would you consider them of importance if you have no idea of their contents?  
  
"I'm fairly sure the Sarafan P'ramma was looking for them - they may contain intelligence of use to us."  
  
Kain gave them a disinterested glance. "The Sarafan are well-known for documenting trivia. Pay them no heed - dispose of them."  
  
More than a little vexed at his master's inference that he had wasted his time, Raziel went on to tell Kain of the demon-bedecked sword he had found, and of how strange it was that a servant of their enemy should wield such an arm.  
  
"You find mysteries where there are none. If you were given a weapon to fight for your life, would you think twice about using it though it were wrought in ivory and decorated with fairies?" He interrupted Raziel's bewildered pondering by adding, "You would do well to destroy both the writings and the weapon and instead concentrate your efforts on conquering the remaining Sarafan territories."  
  
The Vampire Lord bowed in acknowledgement of his master's order - and the implied reprimand, knowing at the same time that he had no intention of giving up either item. One thought was prevalent in the Raziel's mind as he stalked towards the exit: It is always useful to have in one's possession something one's enemy craves.  
  
Daylight found the Keep at Meridian alive with the hum and bustle of activity on the predetermined Day of Challenge. A formal letter had been sent to the Razielim Clan, politely requesting that they meet with the Sarafan knights at a chosen location, where the ownership of the land surrounding the Sun Temple would be resolved in the time-honoured manner. The challenge had been accepted with due civility, and now the morning of the battle had arrived, all too soon for some. The blacksmith was no exception to this category, having spent most of the last two nights wrestling with - and cursing a blue streak at - the P'ramma's new breastplate.  
  
At the appointed hour, the air was briefly filled with the thudding of hooves, boots and cloven feet as the two armies approached the fields outside the Sun Temple. The dying sunlight drenched each element of the scene in a sanguine hue; from the shining plate armour and plumed helmets of the Sarafan contingent to the sable garb and death-white faces of their vampire opponents. It was as though blood had already been spilled.  
  
According to tradition, the opposing leaders rode out to meet each other and exchange pleasantries before the battle itself began.  
  
"Greetings, P'ramma. I trust today finds you well?"  
  
"Indeed, lord Raziel. And your good self? I trust the sun is not taxing your energies too much?"  
  
"Not at all," he smirked, "And I have made sure my fledgelings are somewhat better prepared for the heat this time." He gestured behind him to indicate a contingent of the youngsters clad from head to foot in matte black armour, smoked glass inset into the visors of their helmets. "It would not do to have them burst into flame at some inopportune moment as they nearly did the other day."  
  
Freya also noted that there were others ranged behind the Vampire Lord who were not thus attired, and that each carried at his side a long, curved scimitar, similar to the one she had taken from the fallen Turelim. These must be the Razielim Elite - the vampires must have some idea of the true value of the temple to have brought these into the fray.  
  
"Shall we begin?" she asked cheerfully, as though the battle in which they were about to participate amounted to no more than a game of chess.  
  
"At your convenience, lady." He inclined his head with the ease of one born to nobility, and the two returned in a stately manner to their respective troops.  
  
"The odds are about as good as they're going to get," said Antaris in an aside as she returned. "They match us, man for man, but the fledgelings are inexperienced, and I doubt they'll have much manoeuvrability in those suits."  
  
Freya nodded agreement, and, seeing that her men were as prepared as they ever would be, gave voice to what she hoped was a Celtic battle-cry and led the charge at the enemy who stood waiting for them, dark, silent and brooding in the bloody twilight.  
  
Battle was joined.  
  
Nothing could have prepared Freya for the experience that followed. Although by now she had tested herself enough to know that her fighting skills were not an issue, the pure bloodlust that ensorcelled every being on that field from the first clash of steel on steel caught her unawares. It was contagious, and the initial feeling of fear that had been eating away at the pit of her stomach since morning was almost instantly replaced by a primal rage as she tore into the undead with a ferocity that rivalled their own.  
  
The tide of battle surged forwards, filling the air with the cries of the wounded, the dying and the victorious, and saturating the earth with the lifeblood of both Sarafan and Vampire. Through it all, Antaris strode, slicing at vampire flesh with his favoured weapon; a huge two-handed blade with curved edges that could cleave plate armour at a single stroke. His chest was already covered with streams of vampire blood, and rivulets of the dark, precious liquid ran down his bracers and cuisses to pool on the ground beneath his feet. Raziel ordered a few of his Elite in the Sarafan Lord's direction.  
  
The fledgelings meanwhile were enjoying their first taste of combat. The restrictions imposed by the protective suits were more than made up for by the chance to reave Sarafan flesh from Sarafan bone, a task into with they threw themselves with much gusto. The Sarafan knights who came within reach of their slashing blades fell back in terror, each clutching a spouting artery or groping around in vain for a lost limb. They had been ordered to maim.  
  
Freya meanwhile had lost herself to the fight. She was never sure later if the red haze through which she glimpsed her opponents was due to the battle frenzy or the blood dripping in her eyes. For the moment it was unimportant. All that mattered now was satisfying the roaring lust that drove her every move. When one of the fledgelings refused to fall before the deadly backhanded slash she aimed at him, the bloodlust manifested itself with a fearsome yell, torn unwilling from her throat, and she dropped her guard in a determined attempt to behead the creature. The fledge took advantage of her mistake and clove her shield with a mighty downwards stroke of his axe. Infuriated as much by her own stupidity as the fledgeling's success, she swung the broken shield at his legs, stamping on his right arm as he went down. With the creature thus incapacitated, she kicked off its helmet, watching with grim pleasure as the last rays of sun incinerated his face in golden flame.  
  
Raziel stood apart from the fracas, surveying the scene with immense satisfaction. Then, as though a certain hour had arrived, he called out to his men to retreat.  
  
Freya whirled at the sound, her features contorted in an almost feral grimace, her eyes betraying the exhilaration she felt. The force of her movement swung her bloodstained hair around her face, leaving it covered in faint red marks. "Had enough?" She taunted.  
  
"I will not risk losing more men over this holding." He replied, shaking the reins to calm his whirling mount. He inclined his head in a short but courteous nod. "The lands around the Sun Temple are hereby returned to the Sarafan. Until we next meet, P'ramma."  
  
Freya breathed a sigh of relief. That had been almost too easy - few of her men had fallen, and those that had were mostly wounded, not dead.  
  
The vampire lord turned suddenly as he reached the edge of the clearing. Freya looked up sharply, concerned that the retreat had been a ruse. "Oh, and P'ramma - I wouldn't hold out too much hope of finding what you're looking for," he called with a lopsided smile, "the Sun Temple has already yielded its secrets." He had the audacity to wink before spurring his mount deeper into the forest behind his departing troops.  
  
It was too much for Freya. She threw her shattered shield on the floor before letting loose a torrent of invective coloured with choice Earthly colloquialisms, most of which were not completely lost on the Nosgoth-born.  
  
Cornelius covered his ears. 


	7. The Sanctuary

I apologise for the end of this chapter. It's my birthday and I've got a hangover.  
  
The next few months before the Summer Solstice saw a massive increase in feudal activity. The Vampire Clans, having heard that the Sarafan had once again started Challenging for territory, had quickly followed suit, and consequently Freya found herself bombarded with letters asking for the resolution of ownership of various holdings the length and breadth of Nosgoth. Some, sent by minor lordlings, presumably without the consent or knowledge of their Vampire parents, she ignored, accepting challenges solely from Kain's six sons, as these tended to be for land of strategic importance. Antaris, although proving a staunch ally in their clashes with the vampires, was pestering her to move the conflict forward at a quicker pace. He was in favour of taking the struggle to their opponents' castles and fortresses, and forcing a direct strike at the heart of each Clan territory. Freya took pains to quell this movement before it could gather strength. She was highly dubious about the possibility of a favourable outcome should their armies meet the Clans head-on in an all-out battle, and besides, the piecemeal approach was working well.  
  
Despite the fact that she now had few hours of the day to spend in reflective contemplation, Freya's mind strayed ever and anon to the first Challenge at the Sun Temple, and how she was sure Lord Raziel had played her for a fool. Whether or not he'd actually gained possession of the knowledge supposedly hidden beneath the temple was still a mystery, as on their two recent encounters, the fighting had broken out before they'd had a chance for the customary greeting. The Sarafan seemed to have an unnaturally strong dislike of this particular Clan, and the feeling was evidently mutual. In the course of her musings, Freya would occasionally hit upon some scheme or ruse whereby she might obtain the writings from the Vampire Lord, but she invariably dismissed each one as dangerous at best. So for the time being she contented herself with taking out her frustration on the bloodless hordes she was facing on an almost weekly basis. It helped.  
  
Finally the Summer Solstice, also known as the feast of Relstadt, arrived. It was a cause for celebration not only for its ancient religious significance, but also because it was considered a holy day for Sarafan and Vampire alike. This auspicious occasion marked the cessation of all hostile activities for a full day and night, which happened to fall this year right smack in the middle of a monumental struggle between the Sarafan and the Melchahim over a small and rather innocuous-looking hill. The two sides had retreated at sunset as arranged, and Antaris was even now loudly recounting his day's victories over his seventh trough of ale.  
  
Unable to stomach the Sarafan Lord's raucous laughter or his wild boasts (she'd seen him hiding behind a tree when the Melchahim got out their catapult) any longer, Freya took her wineskin and slipped off towards the edge of their encampment, seeking the serene quiet of the warm summer night. She stopped a short distance from the camp; close enough to hear the babble of conversation, but far enough away to not be able to distinguish the grating tones of the Sarafan Lord's voice. She sat herself beneath the spreading branches of a tree with only a small loss of dignity, casting a swift glance around to make sure no-one had seen her before getting stuck into the wine again.  
  
A twig snapped somewhere off to her left. After a quick pat around her belt, she cursed herself for a fool for leaving her sword (such as it was) strapped to her mount on the far side of the fire. As Freya struggled to her feet, a figure presented itself before her, dressed in black from neck to toe (the better to move unseen in the dark) save for the by now all-too- familiar symbol of the Razielim which was raised in red relief on his chest. He was young, that much she could tell even in this weak light, or at least he had been when the fiends had taken him. She found herself wondering what life this boy had missed out on by succumbing at such a tender age.  
  
"My Lord requests your presence."  
  
"Does he now?" Freya made an effort not to slur. "What for? Can't he wait until next week? We're fighting over Nuprac . . . Nutcrack . . ."  
  
"Nupraptor?" put in the fledgeling, helpfully.  
  
"Yeah him. His keep."  
  
"My Lord has instructed me to tell you that he has the documents you seek."  
  
That sobered her. She put down the wineskin. "Is he willing to trade?"  
  
"That I do not know, but you have his assurance that the Relstadt Day truce will be honoured." Against her better judgement, Freya nodded her assent. If there was even the remotest chance that she could get a look at those texts, she had to take it. With a final glance at the camp, and the still wildly gesticulating silhouette of Antaris, she indicated that he should lead the way.  
  
It took a little over an hour on the mounts Isca had brought to reach the place that Raziel had named for their meeting, a small and seldom-used vampire sanctuary near a lake at the western edge of Melchiah's territory. The fledgeling opened the stone door (Freya wondered idly how the hinges worked) to admit her into his Lord's presence, immediately afterwards bowing and retreating back outside before closing the portal with a solid, scraping thud. Freya surveyed the room. It was a rough-walled chamber that seemed to have been hewn from the solid rock of the hill; its only furnishings were a wooden table, two chairs, and a small fireplace in whose hearth a blaze burned with an odd-coloured flame.  
  
"I wasn't sure you'd come - especially not unarmed," commented Raziel by way of a greeting, nodding to her empty weapons belt.  
  
Freya ignored his observation and changed instantly to the subject that had been plaguing her for months. "You deliberately threw the fight at the Sun Temple, didn't you?"  
  
"I already had the only items of value that temple ever held."  
  
"What have you done with them?"  
  
"I took them to my master, who ordered them destroyed." Raziel was enjoying the vast range of emotions that were chasing each other on and off the woman's face.  
  
"Your soldier told me you still had them!"  
  
Raziel chuckled. "I always was a man with an eye for a bargain," he said, regarding her steadily as he paced around the stone-walled room. "And so I kept them. I thought they might be of use to me in procuring other, more valuable items."  
  
"What did you have in mind?" Asked Freya warily, her overactive imagination conjuring up the blackest images of the kind of payment a Vampire might exact from a Sarafan.  
  
"What will you offer?"  
  
"I cannot give you what the Sarafan hold - it is not mine to give. The only thing I ever had of any value was my sword, and that's long gone." She said regretfully.  
  
"Then it seems we are at an impasse."  
  
As Freya studied the blue flickering flames of the fire in the hope that they might give her inspiration, she heard a sound that made her ears twitch of their own accord: a metallic rasp, ending in a musical ting that signalled the emergence of a blade from its sheath. Just as the cadence of a friend's voice is instantly recognisable amongst a myriad others, so too was the distinctive tone of the very metal in her own sword. She leaped to her feet, the act almost causing her to run onto the blade itself, which the vampire held extended before him. She caught her breath and took a reluctant step backwards, eyes glued to the gleaming blade.  
  
"Where did you find it?" the question was a whisper that would barely have been audible to human ears.  
  
"In the blood demon." Raziel answered, watching her reaction with interest. After a moment she dragged her gaze upwards from the object of her desire to see what he intended. The vampire's expression made the answer clear.  
  
"You're not going to give it to me, are you?" she asked through gritted teeth.  
  
Raziel had rarely seen such control. It was evident that the P'ramma wanted nothing more than to wrest the weapon from him, but she was keeping herself in check - just barely. She was fidgeting furiously, clenching and unclenching her fists with the effort it was taking not to reach for the sword. Much as he was enjoying her torment, he realised he must make his demands. He sheathed the weapon and laid it on the table, pacing back towards the fire with his hands clasped behind him.  
  
"There is something I want from you." Freya steeled herself. "I want you to cease your attacks on our tithe villages." Taking her puzzled frown as a refusal, he carried on, "The conflict between us has reached a civilized level, and I'm sure you will agree it no longer seems . . . appropriate for such barbaric practices to continue."  
  
"What's a tithe village?"  
  
The Vampire Lord stopped his pacing and regarded her angrily. "Now is not the time for feigning innocence, Sarafan." However, at Freya's ardent protestations, he elaborated.  
  
"When the Sarafan knights first gained a foothold in this land, and began to spread their religion and teachings to the surrounding areas, there were many who would not subscribe to their doctrines. Many people had, by this time, learned to live side-by-side with us, and did not welcome the Sarafan insistence that their following of the Old Gods was blasphemy. The Blood Wars saw the end of both great cities that housed humans partial to our cause, and now only a few small pockets of opposition remain."  
  
"Where does the tithe come in?" Freya was almost afraid to ask.  
  
"The Vampire Lord who holds the land on which the humans dwell is responsible for keeping them safe from the Sarafan marauders - a task which becomes more difficult with each passing year - in return for a small blood tithe."  
  
He stopped. Freya was staring at him open-mouthed. "This is pure fiction, Raziel! Do you really expect me to believe any of this? That good, honest Sarafan knights would attack other humans?"  
  
Raziel sat down in one of the wooden chairs with a frown. It hardly seemed possible that the Sarafan's own leader could be ignorant of these events, but it was blatantly obvious both from her tone and expression, as well as the almost palpable emotions she was emitting that she was in earnest. Which then begged the question: how deep did Antaris' treachery and deceit go?  
  
"All I'm asking is that you follow Antaris' Special Forces on their next covert mission. If it is as I say, you will order a cessation and I will return your sword."  
  
"And the texts?"  
  
"One thing at a time, P'ramma." replied the vampire with a triumphant grin. " It would be imprudent of me to give up two potential bargaining chips when one will suffice. Don't you agree?"  
  
Freya sat back in her chair let out a breath through her teeth with a hiss. For a moment she considered telling him she'd prefer the Sarafan writings at this point, but one look at the glossy black scabbard and demonic hilt was enough to convince her otherwise. One other thought disturbed her, however, inducing her to ask, "What if I follow these "Special Forces" and I find there are no attacks - what if I find you lied about the whole thing?"  
  
"That's a chance you're going to have to take if you want your sword back." The Vampire Lord could read her internal struggle like a book, and he savoured every moment of her anguish.  
  
With a resigned sigh, Freya agreed. She was about to get to her feet when she noticed with a start that the vampire had one hand extended towards her. She regarded the three-fingered claw as though unsure of its function.  
  
"Do the Sarafan no longer observe even this simple tradition?" he asked in mock outrage. "Are deals no longer sealed with a handshake?"  
  
"Of course . . ." murmured Freya distractedly. The only physical contact she'd had with these creatures heretofore was when she'd been trying to eviscerate them. The thought was repellent, but as the regaining of her sword was first and foremost in her mind, she hesitantly reached out to make contact.  
  
He engaged her hand in a cool, firm grip. The sensation reminded her not of the icy chill of death as she'd expected, but more of the cooling effect of a fresh breeze on a hot summer's day. Their eyes locked and for a brief moment, the same impossible thought was shared by two minds.  
  
Freya broke contact almost instantly, rising from the chair with such alacrity that it tipped over with a clatter. "I will contact you when I have done what you ask."  
  
Raziel inclined his head in affirmation, perceiving with some amusement that the P'ramma would no longer look him in the eye. When she had departed, he called Isca to his side.  
  
"Go find me a human. All this talk has made me thirsty." 


	8. Trauma and Treachery

Freya's arrival at the Sarafan encampment a little before dawn the next morning was met with a stern warning from the Sarafan Lord.  
  
"If you've worn out any of my men before today's battle . . ." He allowed the unspoken threat to hang in the air as Freya gave him a look somewhere between exhaustion and disgust.  
  
"Not bloody likely." She muttered under her breath as she donned her silver breastplate, still caked with mud and blood from the previous day's skirmish. Antaris strode past with a critical glare at her appearance, blatantly flaunting the fact that he and all his men had spent at least some portion of the night cleaning their armour. A scant half hour later, which was enough for Freya to ascertain that she'd completely missed her chance at breakfast (unless she fancied the bucket of slops), the Sarafan regiments trooped onto the battlefield in the dishwater dawn light.  
  
At Antaris' reiteration that she had better be in a fit state to fight, she spurred her mount towards the waiting figure of Melchiah, who sat atop his horse next to a flagpole upon which his banner fluttered in the morning breeze. She was struck, just as in their previous battles, by the apparent fragility of this particular vampire. Unlike his brothers, who were the picture of robust un-death, Melchiah always gave the impression that it had been too long since he last fed, or that some lich-like disease was gnawing that the very marrow of his bones. Nevertheless, she greeted him with due politeness.  
  
Melchiah glossed over the necessary formalities before remarking, "What did you do, P'ramma, sleep in the mud?" This raised some jeers from the assembled undead.  
  
Freya smiled gracefully, appraising her breastplate and spreading her arms wide in self-ridicule. "It'll be doused in vampire blood again soon enough - I saw no reason to clean it twice!"  
  
Melchiah grunted in reply and cantered back to his men. "To arms!"  
  
Freya had endured enough of these charges by now to be confident of the best means of survival; however, as the Melchahim drove their front forwards with what seemed like impossible speed, she found herself doubting her ability to retain her seat. She was proved right a moment later when a mace landed with a solid thump in the centre of her breastplate and sent her flying backwards from her horse. She landed with an ungainly thud some feet behind the galloping steed, her resultant disorientation leaving her little time to roll out of the way of the oncoming masses. Having regained her feet, she berated herself mentally for allowing herself to become so distracted - her questions for Antaris could wait until after the battle.  
  
Determinedly, Freya gripped the hilt of the Sarafan broadsword, pushing aside the worrying observation that her hands were slick with sweat. The first Melchahim to attack her met a swift end, his head tumbling through the air with his face still fixed in an expression of inchoate rage. The second and third fared no better. Her poise returning, Freya glanced about to locate Antaris, to find to her utter astonishment and dismay that he was sitting astride his mount at the edge of the fray. Her loping jog in his direction was cut short as a sharp jolt inexorably impeded her progress. Freya looked down to see that the head of a battleaxe had penetrated the gap between her left pauldron and rerebrace, and that the handle yet rested in the hand of a jubilantly grinning Melchahim. She was still looking at him in complete surprise when her knees buckled under her, sending her back into the mud with the axe embedded in her shoulder.  
  
The world turned grey; the thundering tattoo of horse hooves faded into an echo of her own agitated heartbeat; the cool mud in which she lay mimicked a lover's caress against her hot cheek. Somewhere above her, she knew that the Melchahim had drawn his scimitar, and stood poised to strike even now, his lean frame an ebon silhouette against the mist-covered sun. She sensed that her lifeblood was oozing from the open wound to run in unhurried droplets off the edge of her armour and mix with the peaty loam, and she suddenly knew she didn't want it to end this way; slain by a walking corpse while marooned on some God-forsaken mediaeval planet with half the population out for her blood. With a monumental effort, Freya lifted her head from the floor and glowered in impotent fury at the waiting Melchahim.  
  
"Kain himself will reward me for this!" he shouted with glee, a presight that was not to be, as a moment later he was tackled from his feet by three Sarafan doing a passable impression of a rugby team. Freya let her head flop back onto the earth in relief, only to find she had to raise it again almost immediately as she heard the unmistakeable sound of someone calling a retreat. Ere long, a number of Sarafan were lifting her unresisting body from the ground, a move that triggered a whirling vertigo, and the world faded from grey to black.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The brooding silence was rudely broken by the harsh clank of armoured bodies approaching the moat outside the great crenellated gateway that marked the entrance to Zephon's domain. A light drizzle speckled the hair and beards of those who stood with stoic patience before the massive barred portal, its persistent droplets causing discomfort and unease as they found their way into every unprotected nook and chink. The gloom of the grim dawn was compounded by a palpable uncertainty that was shared by every Sarafan in the group of fifty men that stood ranged before the daunting façade, and substantiated in the constant throat-clearing and shifting of feet.  
  
Anon, a portal opened above the main gateway, and a young vampire sporting Zephon's Clan regalia peered cautiously over the battlements.  
  
"My master asks your purpose here." Called the youth, plainly keen to be absolutely anywhere else.  
  
A figure detached itself from the centre of the group, massive pink plume waving above a grandiosely decorated helmet.  
  
"I would speak with Zephon himself - unless he is too afraid to show his face?" Antaris' bluster quickly restored the dampened spirits of the Sarafan, even raising a derisive taunt or two.  
  
The fledgeling blanched, visibly fearing the conveyance of this request to his sire, and disappeared back into the darkened doorway. A thud and a squeal echoed plainly through the small canyon at whose mouth the Sarafan stood, to be followed a moment later by the emergence of Zephon himself. He cut an imposing figure in the grey morning light, and, unprepared as he was for the sight that met his eyes as he surveyed his forecourt, he lost not one whit of his composure. One midnight-black claw gripped the battlement edge with unerring precision as the Vampire Lord surveyed the waiting Sarafan, a frown of confusion knitting his brows.  
  
"What do you here, Sarafan?" he demanded in crisp, clear tones. "Our dispute pertains to land at the northern edge of my territory - that, as you well know, is where the matter will be resolved."  
  
"Plans have changed, vampire," called Antaris in reply. "We now Challenge for the keep in which you stand."  
  
Zephon was incensed. Not only had the Sarafan flaunted the dictated rules of battle, but they had changed targets without prior warning; and to make matters worse, they had absolutely no legitimate historical claim on this building - it had always been on Vampire land. His anger soon turned to perplexity as he sought but did not find the face of the P'ramma among the assembly. Perhaps the rumours of her defeat at the hands of the Melchahim were true after all.  
  
"I give you one chance, Sarafan. Return with your troops to the designated site, and we will gladly meet you there at the appointed hour."  
  
Antaris bared his teeth in a nasty smile. "Afraid to face us on your own home soil, Zephon? I had no idea Kain's sons were so spineless."  
  
Zephon's spasming claw took a four-inch chunk out of the retaining wall. When he spoke, his voice, though quiet, disturbed every being that crawled, slithered or burrowed in the soil. "You will have your fight, Sarafan."  
  
A single word from the Vampire Lieutenant brought guards scurrying from the many doors that opened onto the battlements and the terraces far above. Most were scantly armed, as the call had come several hours early, and many were still shaking the last vestiges of Lethean slumber from their brains. Notwithstanding, in but a few minutes, Zephon's troops had ranged themselves in positions of defence all over the front of the keep, and stood alert and waiting for their master's command.  
  
Antaris allowed the pregnant silence to germinate for a nerve-wracking minute. Then, with a signal to one of the rearguard, he raised his two- handed cleaver aloft and shouted, "Now!"  
  
Twenty-five explosive charges ignited simultaneously along the exterior wall, cracking the entirety of the keep's façade from base to terrace. The first casualties were those on higher perches, whose less stable vantage points left them twice as vulnerable as those lower down. The wildly oscillating masonry crumbled like so much loose earth, sending the unfortunates plummeting to a scalding death in the waters of the moat below. Zephon, his stance barely shaken, glared in incredulous wrath at the humans on the ground: to have been so easily bested by these wilful mortals - Kain would have his hide!  
  
The Sarafan Lord, eminently pleased with the success of his plan, ordered the advance of the trebuchet. The Vampires watched helplessly as the massive catapult trundled out of the canyon. Those who were able were rapidly retreating from the open through those doors that still functioned, but many were trapped, watching in growing horror as they perceived the ballast with which the Sarafan were loading their weapon.  
  
Water.  
  
Huge troughs of pure, clear water. Enough to douse the entire front of Zephon's keep in gallons of the burning fluid. Arrows they could withstand; even some of the larger forms of ballistae would have been insufficient to break their defence, but this was intolerable; insurmountable; unjust.  
  
Zephon viewed the developing situation with a rage that bordered on white fury. A quick look around revealed that the majority of his fledgelings had retreated back inside; those that had not, could not. There was still a disturbing number of his Elite on the outside wall, and Zephon knew as well as they that he alone could survive such a deluge. With the wild abandon of a riled parent, he leaped the thirty feet from the battlement to the drawbridge, intent on sabotaging the Sarafan weapon of destruction before it could wreak havoc upon his progeny.  
  
Too late. Zephon witnessed in mute terror the launch of the first water strike. It was devastating, and his belated efforts to slash at the ropes that propelled the machine's mechanism were foiled instantly by the contingent of fifty Sarafan who remained, untried on the bank of the moat. Despite the torrents of water than flowed freely over the cracked frontage of the keep, the walls were momentarily lit with the incandescent flame that accompanied the demise of vampire souls. Zephon hung his head in grief.  
  
"Back to Meridian!" came the raucous cry of the Sarafan Lord.  
  
Zephon looked up sharply from where he knelt, surrounded by human warriors at the edge of the drawbridge, his incredulous "What?" eliciting a supremely satisfied smile from his nemesis.  
  
"Our task here is complete, my friend."  
  
Zephon shot a glance at his ravaged fortress, its walls littered with sodden, blackened carcasses. "You're not going to occupy the keep?"  
  
Antaris laughed as though humouring a child. "Good heavens no!" He supervised the binding of the vampire's claws in blessed rope with an authoritarian eye. "It's not much use to anyone anymore, is it?"  
  
With a final taunting laugh, Antaris and his men departed, the trebuchet rumbling before them, leaving the Vampire Lord on his knees before his ravaged keep. 


	9. Recovery at Meridian

An active person by nature, Freya chafed at the delay in her recovery. The next three weeks saw her confined to the infirmary as the Sarafan healers endeavoured to purge her system of the noxious poison with which the Melchahim were wont to imbue their blades. Cornelius on the other hand was glad of the opportunity to have a captive audience to listen to his profound historical observations. Not having the heart to discourage him, Freya endured his prolonged orations with staunch patience. It was during one of his afternoon visits that she finally broached the subject of Antaris' Special Forces, taking pains to make it clear that her interest amounted to no more than superficial time-filling.  
  
It soon became evident that although Cornelius was cognizant of their existence, he knew little more than the basics: they were a handful of men, no more than twenty-five at any one time, specially chosen to work undercover and obtain covert intelligence on vampire plans. At length, Freya realised that she had reached the limits of the sage's knowledge on the matter and turned the conversation to other topics, her first request being an update on the Challenges.  
  
Cornelius patted her hand and smiled, his expression one of benevolent tolerance. "You just get yourself better, P'ramma, then you can ask his Lordship all the questions you like. In the meantime, more rest!"  
  
Freya observed his departure with watchful eyes. As soon as he had exited the room, she threw back the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting her feet become accustomed to the cold touch of the tiles before attempting to stand. The result was wobbly, but better than she expected. She'd probably not be fighting fit for another week or so, but she was certainly not as weak as the healers had intimated. A few minutes' search turned up some suitable attire, which she donned with a little difficulty, and she made her way to the door. It opened to reveal two partially-armoured Sarafan wielding halberds almost as tall as they were. Standard security. Freya glanced from one to the other and stepped out into the hallway to continue on her journey.  
  
The halberds clashed together an inch in front of her nose, the steely silence of each man conveying the message of refusal as surely as if it had been spoken. She was not permitted to leave. If there was one thing that irked her it was people who stood in her way when she had a particular goal in mind. With this thought prevailing, Freya elbow-barged the nearest guard, using her weakness as justification to herself for her chosen target area. As he doubled over, retching and ashen faced, she attempted to wrench the polearm from his grasp. However, the Sarafan to her left was advancing quickly, and her strength was apparently not sufficient to obtain the weapon by force. Taking advantage of her own sideways crouch, she waited until the advancing guard was within three feet of her before launching a left roundhouse at his own weak spot. Grimacing at the pain the force of the kick must have inflicted, she mouthed a quick "sorry" at the back of his head, and, lifting the heavy arm from his nerveless fingers, hurried off towards the exterior door.  
  
Freya's prolonged recovery period had given her plenty of time to consider recent happenings. Foremost in her mind was the thought that Raziel had planted there: the possibility that the very men she led might be in some way victimising their own people. It seemed ridiculous of course, but her mind returned constantly to the same argument - he had no reason to lie. With this in mind she decided first to go inconspicuously among the denizens of the city so that she could observe normal Sarafan behaviour. Having ascertained that there was nothing untoward or unusual in their activities (unless you counted the preponderance of rat-on-a-stick, a prolific delicacy she was not tempted to try), she turned her attention to the barrack-buildings around the Soldiers' Quarter.  
  
Wandering nonchalantly through the streets in her hooded cowl, she was able to study these men at ease, and, far from the fractious monsters in the mental picture the Vampire Lord had painted for her, she found a perfect portrait of the fighting man at rest: In one corner, a young guard was playing with a group of excited children, demonstrating how to hold a sword, and warning them of the dangers of taking one up to soon; another had a young woman on his knee and was lovingly stroking her golden hair as she twirled a fresh-picked flower in her slim hands in the afternoon sunlight, their gaze meeting ever and anon to exchange looks that only young lovers can make; still another was repairing a dilapidated porch over the apothecary shop, the old couple in the doorway watching with a proprietary air as they made ready to offer the soldier mead and cake when the task was done.  
  
Freya shook her head and turned her steps back towards town. The vampire's accusation sounded less and less likely as time went on. Nevertheless, she intended to ask the question of Antaris, albeit in a decidedly subtle manner. In the meantime, she returned to the market square, bursting with life at this point in the afternoon, and made it clear to all present that she had fully recovered and would soon relieve Antaris of the onerous self- imposed burden he had borne these past three weeks. Her reinstatement secured in the eyes of the people, Freya set off to find the aforementioned knight.  
  
The Sarafan Lord's reaction to her appearance in his study was brusque at best. She waved aside his baleful insistence that she should be resting still with the observation that it was far too pleasant a time of year to be lying abed. She let it be known that she was itching to return to active service, although she obviously recognised the folly of plunging in head-first, which was why, she reasoned, she'd like the opportunity to accompany his Special Forces on one of their secret, but physically undemanding missions.  
  
Antaris rummaged in the mound of papers on his desk, eyes down. "What 'Special Forces'?"  
  
"Come now, Lord Antaris, I have heard whispers of them in the city - the people hold them in the highest regard."  
  
With a resigned sigh, he admitted their existence. "However, P'ramma, I cannot have you accompanying them on their next mission - they leave at dawn tomorrow, and despite your marked improvement, you would still slow them down."  
  
Apparently, this was sufficient justification for Freya. With an accepting smile, she rose shakily from her seat, and offered a "You're probably right, Antaris, there will be other times." before vacating the room, ostensibly to seek her chamber.  
  
The corners of his mouth curled in an unpleasant smile. Women were so predictable.  
  
Daybreak saw Freya sneak stealthily through the stables and depart the city on horseback in the wake of a small group of men led by the irrepressible General Thorin. As the last set of hoof beats faded into the distance, Antaris strode from his hiding place at the water-fountain and headed in the direction of the barracks. The deafening peal of the alarm bell set the majority of the soldiers on their feet in a matter of seconds, their sleep- crusted eyes slowly discerning the figure of the Sarafan Lord with one thuggish fist wrapped around the bell-chain.  
  
"Ready yourselves for battle."  
  
The troops exchanged confused glances; there was no Challenge scheduled for days.  
  
"Get a move on, you lily-livered pansies! What are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed?" Antaris' warning bark was enough to assure even the most obtuse that the alarm was for real.  
  
It was a most bemused contingent of men that assembled in the barracks courtyard a little over an hour later to take their orders from the Sarafan Lord. Antaris strode up and down before his men, calling attention to an unbuckled strap here, an unpolished boot there, until he was sure that the two hundred gathered before him were well-prepared.  
  
"Today we take back what is ours by right."  
  
"If you please, my Lord - where is the P'ramma?" asked one, "Word is that she is recovered."  
  
"Yes," agreed his mate, "Saw her myself yesterday. Will she not be leading us?"  
  
Antaris strolled in a blasé manner towards he who had spoken last, leaning in closely so that the soldier would not miss one sibilant syllable of his reply.  
  
"The P'ramma no longer leads this army. She will not take the necessary risks to ensure the survival of our culture. This militia answers to me once again. Do you have a problem with that?"  
  
The young soldier swallowed, not daring to wipe his face. "No, sir."  
  
Another calculating glance ensured the man's silence, and Antaris went on to outline their plan of attack. This done, he ordered the cavalry to mount up and led the parade, accompanied by a small gaggle of excitable early risers, towards the gate. As they were about to leave, one of the youngsters asked, "Sir, what is our target?"  
  
The Sarafan Lord's answer silenced every heartily bantering man in the crowd, and the soldiers who trudged through that gate, death-pale, were as men walking to their doom.  
  
Freya, meanwhile, was rapidly tiring of her adventure. The Sarafan she had followed had travelled with no particular urgency to almost all the outlying villages, collecting tithes, helping with repairs and chatting with acquaintances. On perceiving that the Twenty-Five were making ready to depart for yet another town, she pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb and gave some serious thought to going home. The sight of another circle of mud-thatched cottages and another litter of mangy curs was hardly the most enticing proposition. However, this was her part of the bargain with the Vampire Lord, and whether his claims were true or not, she intended to make good on her promise.  
  
Another hour's dodging behind the bizarre cacti that passed for foliage in this particular region brought Freya to the edge of a much larger village, surrounded on all sides by a large wooden palisade. Further to the north she could make out the sea through a misty haze, and atop a brooding crag, an intimidating structure of black stone. She dismounted, interested at last, and made her way forward in a low crouch to where she could lie unseen on a bank outside the settlement. There was some commotion emanating from the main gate, so she wriggled into a position whence the cause of the disturbance might be discerned.  
  
To all appearances, General Thorin was talking calmly and decorously with another who, judging by his black and sliver velvet garb, was a denizen of some note. He was being detained by two burly Sarafan, his face steeled in a mask of obstinate denial, his very posture evincing his stubborn recalcitrance. Freya's eyes narrowed, wondering what the man had done; maybe he had mistreated one of the village women? Ah yes, a woman was being brought forth even now. Most likely the Sarafan knights would make him apologise publicly, and the woman would have satisfaction. She settled down into the earth in cheerful anticipation, wishing she had a bucket of popcorn to munch while watching the unfolding drama.  
  
At the emergence of the woman, the black-garbed man seemed to falter, the obstinacy draining from his features along with the colour. The woman looked from the General to the Accused and slowly shook her head. A moment later, it rolled on the soil, her lifeless eyes staring endlessly at the General's boots. Freya stiffened. What had been the woman's crime? The man in black sank to his knees next to the headless body, his attitude screaming his loss. He raised a wretched face towards the General, his expression obdurate despite his evident grief. Brief words passed between the Sarafan and the Accused, then with dispassionate purpose, the Twenty- Five stormed the village. 


	10. Lemar

Freya's stomach lurched, threatening to disgorge the remains of her frugal morning meal. It was as though she viewed the horrific scene detached, through a nebulous veil. Had she been able, she would have cried, but no tears would come to her thunderstruck system. How could she have been so wrong? Feelings of guilt and anxiety consumed her - that she had been so blind not to perceive the deception, the very thought caused her heart to batter against her ribs in an unsettling rhythm. She was halfway down the bank before her body realised it had got to its feet. Thorin, his back to her, was still standing in the entryway to the village, overseeing the melee with hands on hips and a wide grin on his brutish features. Her hand gripped his arm, wrenching him around to face her.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" Freya didn't have the words to express the horror she was feeling.  
  
The General seemed genuinely surprised to see her. "Carrying out our orders."  
  
The woman recoiled, a look of utter repulsion written plainly on her countenance. "Stop them! Now!" Thorin shook his head maliciously. "These are human beings, not vampires - what the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"They are dissidents, P'ramma. They serve and nurture their Vampire Tithe Lord - they are no better than the foul creatures that suckle at their flesh. They deserve to die."  
  
The depths of the Sarafan persecution sank home. Even the Vampires, ancient and cursed as they were rarely stooped to the murder of their own kind in the name of idealism. In this insane world, it seemed the bloodsucking undead were the lesser of two evils. Freya whirled towards the village, intent on stopping the marauding horde, but the General grabbed her shoulder, causing a line of white fire to shoot from collarbone to bicep. The Melchahim wound was still fresh. Desperate to help the imperilled townsfolk, Freya elbowed Thorin in the nose with her good arm and ran further into the village, leaving him fuming and bloodied in her wake.  
  
The scene was chaos. In one corner, a heavily armoured knight was herding a group of terrified youngsters into a thatched hut, burning brand raised high in one plated fist; in another, a group of five were busy ransacking market stalls - foodstuffs, clothing and livestock were being piled unceremoniously into a steadily growing pyre; then a glance at a nearby hut galvanised Freya into action. Three heavily-built guards were dragging a young woman screaming across the threshold, her torn clothing and the lewd laughter of the men painting an unmistakeable picture of the event about to transpire. Aware that the General had been stealthily creeping up behind her, Freya allowed him to come within striking distance before whipping her sword from its sheath and swinging around to place it neatly beneath his Adam's apple.  
  
"Call them off." The command was feral, gritty, implacable.  
  
Thorin made an airless gulping noise and deliberately shook his head. A sharp dig in his throat that caused red droplets to form on the end of the keen blade convinced him this was not the best way to end the stalemate, and he nodded grudging assent.  
  
"Withdraw!"  
  
One by one the force trouped back to the gateway, disbelief their companion. When all twenty-five were assembled, they received explicit and forceful orders to return immediately to Meridian, where the P'ramma would join them later. At this command, Thorin was sorely tempted to draw his own weapon and put paid to the interfering bitch once and for all, but the thought was almost instantly superseded by the recognition that Antaris would be less than impressed if he himself was not there to witness it. He would bide his time.  
  
As the heavy wooden gates slammed shut behind the departing Sarafan, Freya turned to evaluate for herself the extent of the damage the knights had wrought. Apart from the general disorder and the smattering of small fires around the palisade, it was evident that they hadn't had much time to fulfil their ultimate aim: four or five were seriously wounded, and many more had sustained cuts and bruises in the general commotion that had ensued, but none had died. Seeing that the village healer had her hands full, Freya went to offer what help she could. Their combined efforts to save one profusely bleeding woman were in vain, and as the healer stroked the eyelids shut, Freya felt a hand on her shoulder.  
  
The man in black greeted her and introduced himself as Karl, the village headsman. He was half-way through thanking her for her intervention when he noticed that tears were coursing unchecked down her cheeks. "What ails you, lady?"  
  
Freya made a gesture that indicated the wounded, the overturned marketplace, the flaming cots and the now-still body of the young woman. She shook her head numbly. "They were my men."  
  
"You are the P'ramma?" Freya nodded, dimly aware that the admission could seal her fate. "Our Tithe Lord speaks well of you. He says you are a worthy opponent, unlike that bastard of a Sarafan Lord." Freya humphed dejectedly, walking alongside Karl as he led her to his own abode. "That fool's actions may bring about an all-out war."  
  
"Surely it won't come to that?" Freya asked, her eyes red-rimmed and haunted.  
  
"His attack on Zephon's keep cannot go unanswered."  
  
She stopped in her tracks. At her request, Karl elaborated on Antaris' underhand defeat of the Vampire Lord, the wanton destruction of his tower, and described how he had left him humiliated before his fallen keep until some of his beholden had found him the next day. As the headsman's tale evolved, the hollow feeling in Freya's stomach gradually transmuted into a dogged resolve as anger took the place of worry and fear. "It seems I have been out of the picture a little too long." She opined grimly. She then took a steadying breath and nodded to Karl, new strength evident in her carriage and demeanour. "Antaris will answer to me tonight."  
  
"Beware the Sarafan Lord, P'ramma," warned Karl, "You countermanded his orders on the field of battle. He may not be so pleased to see you."  
  
Freya laughed humourlessly as she ran her eyes over the scene of destruction. Then, unbidden, a hitherto forgotten thought resurfaced. The truth of Raziel's words had been borne out.  
  
"Who is your Tithe Lord?"  
  
Turel's high-ceilinged council chamber had rarely contained such power as tonight; never before had all six of Kain's Lieutenants been gathered together inside its lofty walls. The mood was sombre and electric, the combined dark presence of the beings gathered within dissuading all but the most confident of Turel's aides from even entering the same wing. Flickering amber light issued from sconces set around the vaulted walls, imbuing the air with the gold tinge of Charon's coins, though no heat could prevail over the collective auras of these messengers of death.  
  
A large circular table had been set out, and in the last hour this innocent slab of wood had been assaulted by a deluge of maps and documents, several overfilled goblets of wine, at least six thumping fists and an occasional hapless human. Raziel, as eldest, had endeavoured to take control and keep his brothers' dangerous zealousness in check.  
  
"I cannot find in favour of an all-out strike, Zephon."  
  
His younger brother ground his teeth, eyes wide in outrage. "You would allow their attack on me and mine to go unpunished?" he rose from his seat, his grief surpassing his anger. "Half of my fledges are dead!"  
  
Raziel bowed his head. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "I am truly sorry for your loss, brother." His piercing gaze rose to meet that of his distraught sibling. "But if today's manoeuvre is anything to judge by . . ."  
  
A sudden commotion from the hallway interrupted the vampire's speech. A rapid clanging, accompanied by several thuds and gasps told those within that some enemy was swiftly and steadily approaching the door. The heavily timbered portal swung inwards, and the threshold was breached by a somersaulting Turelim, closely followed by an especially irate-looking P'ramma.  
  
"Where were you?" Freya demanded of Turel, her rage still unabated, only realising a moment later the identities of the persons in whose presence she now stood. She swallowed silently as it became clear how impertinent the question must appear; she, the Sarafan P'ramma had forced an entry into an enemy fortress and now stood alone on undisputedly vampire territory in the company of all Kain's sons. Undaunted, she gritted her teeth and stood her ground. She wanted answers.  
  
Before Turel could reply, a guard hobbled in, left side still spurting blood. "We could not stop her, my lord, she insisted on . . ."  
  
"Go, fledgeling," interjected Raziel, "We will deal with this."  
  
Freya rounded on him instantly. "You! With all your talk of Vampire Lords protecting those beholden to them. A pack of lies!"  
  
Raziel narrowed his eyes, thunder on his brow. He couldn't remember the last time a mortal had called him a liar. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his displeasure in check. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Lemar!" She said in exasperation.  
  
Turel shot a glance at the soldier at the door, who was already edging towards the exit, a look of concern on his face. "Go, see that all is well with your family."  
  
"The Sarafan won't be doing any more damage today, I sent them back to Meridian." Turel nodded his appreciation. "I followed them this morning, as Raziel suggested." She had calmed somewhat now, but the question still remained. "Why didn't you aid them?"  
  
"You don't know." Turel's question became a statement as soon as it was uttered.  
  
Freya paled visibly. What new treachery awaited?  
  
"Two hundred Sarafan attacked the Sanctuary of the Clans this morning."  
  
Freya looked as if Turel had just told her black was white. She physically took a step back, and after a few moments to digest this, she turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the door.  
  
"Guards!" Her egress was instantly prevented by a group of Turel's Elite, each carrying that tell-tale scimitar. Freya regarded the Vampire Lords over her shoulder, lips set in a straight line and one eyebrow raised.  
  
Turel walked towards her, a supercilious smile on his pallid, drawn features. "I think it would be foolish of us to let such a valuable bargaining chip slip through our fingers."  
  
Freya turned to face him, a matter-of-fact look on her face. Her reply took in every being in the room. "Do you really think Antaris is going to negotiate for my release?"  
  
The truth of the statement was undeniable. One by one the Vampire lords nodded their agreement, and with a gesture from Turel, the guards moved aside.  
  
"This ends tonight." Freya promised sternly. She inclined her head curtly to those assembled before striding from the room.  
  
In the silence that followed her departure, Turel hazarded, "That's the last we'll see of her. If I were Antaris, she'd be dead by dawn."  
  
Raziel lowered the map he was studying, a germinating thought forcing itself from his lips. "The fight she takes to Antaris this day is in our name. She will challenge him on his attack on the Sanctuary of the Clans as well as his persecution of our tithe villages. To all intents and purposes, she fights for our cause now - should we allow her to die for it?"  
  
The response was fifty-fifty. Dumah, Rahab and Melchiah were soundly of the opinion that the fate of one human life was none of their concern. Turel, on the other hand, agreed readily - he had good reason to fight after the attack on Lemar, and Zephon, who was already armed to the teeth and tapping his foot in impatience at the door, had more than just cause. Raziel had his own vested interest. Thus, it was a party of three that departed the council chamber, each clad in his own distinctive Clan armour which covered neck, shoulder and shin while leaving large expanses of chest bare. Red, blue and green cloaks flowed with the steady, rhythmic pace of the Vampire Lords as they strode down the ramp that led to Turel's stables, where they were joined by a number of Turel's Elite, who had their own motives for avenging the Sarafan strike.  
  
A waning moon iced the black leather of the riders with a silvery sheen as thirteen feisty stallions stomped the ground, night vapour issuing from their snorting nostrils.  
  
"To Meridian!"  
  
Author's note.  
  
I understand why so may people have written parodies now. When you get all 6 Lieutenants together in one place, the temptation to make them misbehave and crack jokes is almost irresistible. But I did it! Hoorah!  
  
Also, thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - keep 'em coming. That way I know whatcha like! 


	11. Revenge

Midnight steeped the Sarafan keep in sable mystery, the moon's diffuse glow draping its brooding angles in a ghostly cloak; never had the dun-coloured walls looked so forbidding as they did this silent evening. Measured footsteps approached the main entrance, echoing forlornly against the deserted town walls. Morris the Gatekeeper waited warily at his usual post as the P'ramma approached, his attitude a smidgen more alert than normal at this hour.  
  
"Evening, my Lady," began he, nervously clearing his throat.  
  
"Morris," Freya acknowledged the greeting with a brief nod.  
  
When it became apparent that she would pass him by without further word, he added, "Lord Antaris has requested you join him in the Great Hall immediately on your return." His eyes darted sideways to the guard sequestered in a darkened alcove inside the gatehouse.  
  
Freya continued on her way determinedly. "That's just where I was going." As her footsteps faded behind the closed inner door, Morris and the hidden guard exchanged glances and shrugged.  
  
The inner halls of the keep were narrow, unkempt and ill-lit, in direct contrast to the grand exterior, which was regularly redecorated and often festooned with multi-coloured banners. Freya found the analogy with the Sarafan knights fitting. Arriving at last at the door to the Great Hall, she paused momentarily to gather her strength: it had been a long day, and the wound in her shoulder was a constant nagging twinge. Resting her hands against the smooth wood of the titanic portal, it briefly crossed her mind to leave the unavoidable clash with Antaris until morning. However, unwanted images of the day's events at Lemar strengthened her resolve, and the knowledge of his underhand, mutinous attacks on Vampire strongholds fuelled the dying spark of fury in her gut.  
  
As the massive double doors to the hall creaked reluctantly open, Antaris and Thorin, seated at a tankard-covered table before the fire ceased their conversation and stood slowly, their mutual expression one of grim eagerness.  
  
"Finished pandering to the undead's slaves, have we?" Freya ignored Antaris' mocking question and advanced into the chamber, eyes fixed on her nemesis. "What took you so long?"  
  
Freya came to a halt on the other side of the table. "I spoke with Kain's Lieutenants. They tell me you've been misbehaving in my absence."  
  
The Sarafan Lord gave a half-nervous laugh. The woman's glare was nothing short of demonic. At a gesture from him, the Hall doors clanged shut and the entire contingent of Twenty-Five, along with a few choice others began to pace towards the centre of the room where Freya stood cornered. Her single-mindedness had caused a fatal error; in failing to check the rest of the hall before entering, she had allowed the Sarafan to lay their ambush.  
  
Seeing that his opponent was not going anywhere, Antaris took to pacing back and forth before the open fire, his hands toying idly with a brazen handled dagger. "This is a great day for us. The Council has voted in my favour," he paused, enjoying her look of distaste, "And you, the last of the dissidents in Meridian, will soon be no more." Freya cast a despairing glance around the room, wishing for the first time that all this had ended on the battlefield with the Melchahim - at least then she would have met her demise in battle at the hands of a decent foe. This was degrading. The Sarafan Lord stepped closer. "By the way, if you wish to pay your last respects to Cornelius, you should do so now." Freya's eyes widened in shock. "Do you know he was the only one of the Council who refused to accept me over you?" Antaris shook his head. "Stubborn old fool."  
  
Control snapped. Anger and indignation took over from common sense, and Antaris found himself on the floor a split second later, beset by a furiously pummelling and randomly cursing woman. At his surprised yelp, two of his Special Force grabbed an arm each, eliciting a snarl of pain as the pressure inflamed Freya's wound. Back on his feet once again, the Sarafan Lord wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, his waxy complexion bright red at his loss of face in front of his men.  
  
He fingered the handle of his wicked-looking knife with a malevolent, anticipatory smile. "This is going to hurt."  
  
" I couldn't agree more." Came an eager concurrence from the window. Thirty pairs of Sarafan eyes swivelled instantly in the direction of the transfixing voice, and thirty pairs of Sarafan feet were shortly shuffling in the opposite direction. Every window in the west-facing wall was crawling with vampires. Fang-rimmed grins graced every casement, and as the Sarafan watched horrified, the undead began to pour into the hall like some turgid black landslide. Freya took advantage of the situation and wrenched herself free of her captors' now-limp grip, backing towards the east wall in utter confusion. To which side should she lend her support?  
  
Antaris, recovering belatedly, realised he had to take control of the situation. He ordered the soldiers to arms with a shaky command, and drew his own sword in readiness. From the other side of the room, he could hear a ravenous cry for his blood, and that self-same liquid seemed to run cold as he recognised the voice.  
  
"Where are you, you conniving bastard?" It was Zephon, frantically pushing aside the forward guards that confronted him in his haste to confront his adversary. "Show yourself!" The Sarafan Lord backed himself into a corner by the fire, gripping his blade in misery. He didn't like these odds, and he guessed, rightly enough, that the Vampire Lord who sought him, possessed by righteous vengeance, would ensure his death was neither pleasant nor swift. His pacing retreat eventually brought him face-to-face with the P'ramma who, armed once again, met his hunted gaze with a look of steady hatred.  
  
"Hello again."  
  
Meanwhile, the Sarafan had engaged the unusual mix of Clans in a desperate and bloody fight. The Turelim Elite, many of whom had frequent contact with individuals at Lemar, were taking great delight in terrorizing the already unnerved Sarafan with melodramatic shows of teeth and claws. One stocky specimen caught a Sarafan blade that came slashing towards his evilly grinning face in an obsidian gauntlet. Drawing the man close by his grip on his sword, the Turelim tilted his head to one side to observe with apparent interest the look on his adversary's face as his other lethal claw opened his abdominal cavity to spill piles of slippery intestines on the pitted floor.  
  
Raziel and Turel, initially inclined to leave the youngsters to their fun, were soon tempted into the fray at the first intoxicating scent of fresh- spilled blood. Turel went straight for General Thorin as the second- highest ranking officer in the room, his respect for the human's prowess increasing with each moment of the struggle. The combatants circled each other in raw delight, testing each other's weaknesses with a fake thrust here, a sideways feint there. Eventually, Turel tired of the game and forced his blade forwards with all his vampiric speed, the celerity of the attack sufficient to penetrate the General's leather hauberk. With a further shove, Turel drove the rest of the blade through Thorin's chest until he heard the tell-tale splatter of innards emerging from the exit wound, the dark ichor issuing from the human's mouth a further testament to his defeat. Turel smiled benevolently into the man's face as he sank lifeless to the ground, still completely transfixed by the vampire's weapon.  
  
Antaris risked a glance at the scene, discovering to his dismay that his men were down to the last dozen. Here and there, where they were engaged in single combat with Turel's Elite, the outcome had favourable potential, but it was obvious that none could hope to prevail over the three immortals who dominated the contest. Turel was toying with his prey, that much was evident, while Raziel seemed to favour moments of torment before dispatching his foes: Antaris pitied those who died at his hands. Zephon on the other hand was driven by an all-consuming purpose, a goal that remained ever elusive as he struggled to cut a swathe through the staunch defenders of the Sarafan Lord.  
  
A sharp slap on the face brought him back to his own dilemma. The P'ramma stood before him, twitching her sword in her agitation to begin. Antaris saw a way to end this quickly. He parried her first attack carefully, angling his cross-guard so it snagged hers and her blade was pushed to the left. He quickly followed this up with a studied advance, and, their blades still locked, he managed to drive her shoulder against one of the pointed metal sconces that adorned the walls. The pain was blinding - worse than the original injury itself, but as Antaris backed off to prepare a final blow, he observed that she was looking over his shoulder, her expression uncertain.  
  
It was Raziel who stood before him as he turned. The Vampire Lord stood primed and ready, the rolling contours of his torso splattered with the lifeblood of Antaris' men, his fanged mouth rimmed with the precious ruby liquid.  
  
"I'm going to enjoy this."  
  
The Sarafan Lord dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground a foot from where Freya slumped, half-blind from pain. Raziel, infinitely delighted by the effect his presence had on the man, advanced slowly and pruposefully, his every move an unspoken threat.  
  
"Let me live and I'll give you anything." Cried the Sarafan, at the limit of his meagre endurance.  
  
"You have nothing I cannot take for myself." Replied the vampire. "Besides, I don't think Zephon would be too pleased were I to allow you to go free today." He indicated his still-struggling brother with a tilt of his head.  
  
"However, I am not going to allow Zephon to kill you."  
  
Antaris looked up hopefully.  
  
"You have much to answer for, Sarafan. Your fate will be decided by Kain."  
  
The Sarafan had evidently heard stories of the fates met by those who aroused the ire of the Master Vampire. He sank to his knees, begging for any alternative.  
  
Raziel studied the prone human before him and seemed to reconsider. "There is another possibility." His golden eyes were gentle, unassuming, fatherly. "You could join us."  
  
Antaris shook his head in utter denial, the offer going some way towards restoring his faith in his own identity. He was a Sarafan knight - better Kain's unknown punishment than that.  
  
"But surely you can see that we are the next stage in your evolution?" continued the vampire, finding Antaris' revulsion and loathing hugely entertaining. "You cannot deny nature, Sarafan."  
  
The Sarafan Lord stood up slowly, playing his role for the first time in his worthless life. "There is nothing natural about you and your abominations. I would endure a thousand deaths at Kain's own hands before I'd join you."  
  
Without warning, Raziel took a rapid step forward, grasped the Sarafan Lord about the neck in one massive red claw and raised him until his feet were dangling puppet-like a foot from the ground. His wolfen eyes narrowed, his dark lips curved into a cruel smile. "Why don't I show you what it's like?" Antaris' repulsion was evident. He squirmed impotently in the immortal's vise-like claw like a maggot on a hook. Raziel continued undeterred, interspersing each question with a small shake and an almost imperceptible tightening of his grip. "Would you like that? To be my get? To spend the rest of eternity in loyal servitude, your only pleasure being the willing obeisance of my every whim?"  
  
"Raziel!" Zephon's hoarse shout captured his brother's attention instantly. "The right to punish is mine. Give him to me."  
  
Raziel turned towards him, the Sarafan Lord still dangling from one outstretched arm. "He has transgressed against the entire Vampire nation," he advised sternly, quelling his brother's outraged reply before it could be uttered. "Kain will decide his punishment."  
  
This appeased Zephon somewhat, knowing that whatever castigation his sire would conceive was probably far more interesting and depraved than any of his own. It was also a foregone conclusion that all six would be invited to observe, if not participate in, the event. He nodded grudging assent.  
  
Raziel dropped the Sarafan unceremoniously on the floor, allowing Turel's men to secure the blue-faced Lord. His roving gaze now alighted on Freya, who was observing the slowly spreading dark patch on the Sarafan Lord's trousers with feeble glee. She'd managed, during their exchange, to haul herself to her feet, and was now leaning against the brickwork surveying the revised situation. Instead of a room full of hostile Sarafan, she now faced a room full of battle-crazed, partially-sated Vampires.  
  
Out of the frying pan . . . 


	12. Dark Angel

The cloying stench of spilled entrails rose in steaming vaporous clouds from the mangled bodies of the fallen. Here and there a pale human hand rose ghost-like from the glistening remains, fingers fixed in a parody of their slayers' in the inevitable rictus of death. The victors of this encounter paced shin-deep in the crimson gore, powerful claws freeing injured comrades from the tepid organic mire. As the pack made their way towards the welcoming night, content with the securing of their vaunted quarry, a scarlet-daubed figure approached the last remaining warm-blooded creature in the room.  
  
Freya had been watching with incredulous relief as the undead, patently uninterested in her fate, prepared to exit the keep. Had she but known it, her actions at Lemar had ensured her eternal safety among the Turelim. However, the breath she exhaled with her sigh of relief remained exhaled as she became aware of the proximity of one last vampire.  
  
Raziel.  
  
Having seen the casual, almost distracted ease with which the immortal had dispatched the cream of the Sarafan crop, Freya had the distinct impression that the length of steel she now held in her hand might as well be a toothpick. Even so, she met his gaze with resolute defiance. If this was to be her last moment, she would not spend it on her knees praying for mercy as had the craven Antaris.  
  
Raziel regarded her contemplatively from beneath a furrowed brow. "You upheld your part of the bargain."  
  
His opening statement was unexpected, to say the least. Freya's eyes took in the steaming remains that had until recently been twenty-nine Sarafan warriors - their agreement had entailed nothing of the sort. However, in retrospect, she had to admit that his request for her to follow Antaris' Special Forces had indeed been honoured.  
  
"I did . . ."  
  
Another step brought him so close that she could see the individual rivulets of garnet liquid that meandered across his blue-veined marble flesh. Freya turned her head and gritted her teeth involuntarily. The noxious odour of rapidly congealing body fluids tugged at stomach and throat. Hope evaporated. All that remained was a prayer that it would be swift, and that he wouldn't toy with her as he had Antaris.  
  
"You'll be wanting your sword back."  
  
The woman was staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. On one hand, he could hardly blame her: he doubted that the Vampire reputation for honesty was widely advertised among the Sarafan. On the other, she'd trusted him enough on Relstadt Day to come unarmed to meet him on Vampire soil. He would leave the decision with her. With a brief nod, he turned and strode toward the window. A backwards glance revealed that she wasn't following, and instead stood staring into space, completely at a loss.  
  
"P'ramma." The tone was sharp, demanding and not to be ignored. Freya's head shot up. "If the antipathy displayed by these Sarafan is anything to judge by, I would not advise waiting for the next thirty to break down that door." A fleeting look at the portal in question showed that it was still heavily barred, but had in the last few minutes begun to resound with a slow steady pounding that suggested the use of an impromptu battering ram. "Whether you accompany us or not, staying here is no longer an option."  
  
With an almost canine shake, Freya roused herself. The events of the previous twenty-four hours had pushed all thoughts of retrieving the katana to the back of her mind, and now the very notion that it might yet be within her grasp galvanised her. As she neared the window from which the Turelim were even now making their exit, she caught sight of a familiar- looking tome on the trestle table near the fire. The Gaminged. Bound in black leather and embossed with a bisected circular silver symbol, the book was all that remained of the only Sarafan for whom she would gladly have given her life, even now. Poor Cornelius. Freya tucked the volume under one arm as she had seen the old man do on many an occasion, and joined the creatures of the night in their departure.  
  
A quick stop at the stables secured her a robust mount that showed little fear of the thirteen vicious predators with whom it now consorted. Before long, it became clear that a large portion of the city guard was now on the alert, and that their departure from the town was likely to be hindered by the night watch as well as some of the bolder citizens. Keeping together in a tight group, the party moved as a single entity towards the town wall, any stray Sarafan that crossed their path cut down in swift, merciless silence before their location could be divulged. From Freya's position in the rear-middle, she could see not only the fall of each guard, for whom she now held a burning contempt, but also Antaris' bulky form, slumped unconscious over the back of a preceding Turelim stallion.  
  
At length, the gateway loomed ahead, its solid metal doors slick from the night drizzle. Before them, ranged in ragged ranks waited a bedraggled, recently awoken group of knights and townsfolk. Raziel and Turel exchanged a word of accord. At their master's edict, the Turelim Elite took to emitting a high keening noise that set teeth on edge and sent a paralysing numbness through a person's very core. This, accompanied by a rush of speed on thundering hooves as they sped towards the rapidly dispersing crowd at the gate, contrived to hide the fact that the terrifying horde barely numbered more than ten.  
  
As her mount plummeted blindly through the pitch black night, Freya held on for dear life and prayed to whatever Gods might be listening that the beast she rode was taking some kind of mental instruction from the demon steeds that surrounded them. Huge animals they were, oil-slick black from mane to tail and built like mutant shirehorses. It made little difference whether she kept her eyes open or closed; except that when closed, the red pin points of light that marked the location of the snorting beasts' eyes were no longer visible. Despite the that unnerving observation, she kept them open.  
  
In time, they approached a clearing that she recognised. A building with a dimly discernable stone adornment on its roof stood in a field near to a bend in the river. The Sun Temple. The three Vampire Lords drew together in discussion. From what Freya could make out of their conversation, here their ways would part until the next day when they would take Antaris to Kain so that the Master Vampire might decide his fate. In a matter of moments, Zephon had departed to the west, a lone figure in the friendless dark. As Turel's band gathered together for their departure, their Lord approached Freya, reining in his mount a few feet from hers.  
  
"You have earned the gratitude of my Clan," he began, his attitude imperious but earnest. "Not to mention the people of Lemar." Freya smiled her understanding. Turel glanced across at Raziel before adding, by way of farewell, "Good luck, P'ramma." At a command from their leader, the Turelim receded into the distance, Antaris' insensible form bouncing wildly on the rearguard horse's rump.  
  
"This way." Raziel's clear baritone called her attention to the path ahead and she urged her mount to follow, wondering where that path might lead. As they rode along, the question gathered pertinence: assuming the vampire did not intend to kill her - which seemed likely since for the moment her skin was still intact - what would she do once her sword was returned? She could hardly go back to Meridian, not that this particular option held any attraction for her; on the other hand, neither was she over enamoured with the idea of joining the ranks of the undead. Freya had just come to the conclusion that her future prospects on this world were limited to mercenary or barkeep when the narrow canyon they had been traversing opened to reveal Raziel's stronghold.  
  
Massive triple gates dwarfed an imposing staircase of chiselled malachite, flanked on either side by banners bearing the Razielim Clan symbol, lifeless now in the early morning stillness. Here and there along turrets and walkways, ravens perched in roosting groups, awaiting with dreamy indolence the fast-approaching dawn. As Isca detached himself from the unit of men who stood awaiting their Lord's return, Freya was struck anew with an undeniable sense of déjà vu. Unable to decipher the reason for the sensation, she pushed the thought aside and followed the two as they entered the yawning maw of an entryway, listening distractedly as the fledge updated his master on the events of the day. The vampires' path led along broad, torchlit corridors until they eventually came to a halt at the bottom of a flight of wide steps. The fledgeling nodded understanding of his latest order and hurried off, eager to do his Lord's bidding.  
  
Raziel caught Freya's eye, his attention now centred on the possibility that his theory about the sword might yet be proven correct. The metal- barred door at the head of the stairway opened silently at his approach, and with a sweeping gesture, he indicated that she should precede him. A broad chamber led onto yet another flight of stairs and opened onto a large room, ending at a raised dais which sported a flaming bier and two doors. It was to this dais that they marched in anticipatory silence.  
  
As Raziel lifted the sword from its niche on the back wall, he felt the weapon's energy lick at his fingers once again. He was aware that the blade was imbued with some kind of eldritch power which responded slightly to his own touch. He was also fairly confident that this effect would reach spectacular proportions when the arm was returned to its rightful owner. With this in mind, he extended the weapon towards Freya, hilt and point resting lightly on the tips of his claws.  
  
Freya approached hesitantly, hardly daring to breathe. She cast frequent glances at the vampire's face, searching constantly for signs of perfidy, and finding only frank curiosity. Her right hand curled around the sculpted hilt while the left took a gentle grip on the scabbard. She lifted it experimentally and felt a rush of delight as the blade returned to her possession. Slowly, savouring each second, she drew the blade from the sheath for the first time in many months, admiring the edge (which she suspected had been recently sharpened) and the mirrored sheen, reflecting jet and amber from its surroundings.  
  
Raziel was disappointed. Where were the fireworks?  
  
Its name returned to her then in a glorious burst of Epiphanous revelation, and as she whispered, "Dark Angel," in affectionate greeting, her memories came back; not filtered slowly as water through limestone, but with all the suddenness and force of a hydraulic press. As the old substrata of memories began to reassert themselves over the recent superstrate, contradictory thoughts clashed together as years of recollections vied for supremacy.  
  
Memories of herself as a young girl, riding a bicycle down a steep hill with legs akimbo clashed head-on with images of a death-shrouded battlefield and a desperate fight for survival. Next, every frame of every film she'd ever seen came crashing upwards in a multi-coloured procession of flashing images; every conversation she'd had with everyone she'd even known, on topics ranging from existentialism to sliced bread hurtled through her brain with the speed of an express train; every lyric of every song she'd ever heard emptied into her head, shortly followed by a cacophonous cavalcade of music as the songs themselves poured back into her consciousness. The noise was deafening. One thought crystallised with uncanny clarity before her overloaded mind shut itself down, the very same idea that had almost overwhelmed her when she'd clasped hands with Raziel on Relstadt night in the Vampire sanctuary.  
  
'I know you.'  
  
Freya keeled over backwards, stiff as a poker, katana clasped two-handed across her chest in a white-knuckled 'wild horses couldn't drag this from me' grip.  
  
The vampire arched an eyebrow.  
Notes:  
  
Total Destruction: You're back! *HUG* 


	13. Raziel's Domain

Gilded dust motes whirled softly in a somnolent dance through the solitary beam of light that illuminated a small portion of the darkened room, its sole occupant aware of little else apart from the heat of a fire somewhere near her feet. Freya sat up groggily, faintly annoyed at the room for continuing its vertiginous whirling despite her repeated requests for it to stop, and attempted to set her randomly chattering brain into some sort of order. Ten minutes and a great deal of head-scratching later, she believed she'd hit on the correct order of events. She'd been brought to Nosgoth by some as-yet-unknown means, joined the Sarafan, discovered they were rotten to the core and moved on. Well, that was simple enough. Now what?  
  
Freya surveyed her surroundings. She sat on a low palette near to a fireplace. There was little else in the room apart from a chair, some food and a pile of material that stirred a hazy recollection of the arrival of some matronly woman sometime during her fevered sleep. She glanced at her shoulder: the wound had been cleaned and dressed, and the vision sparked off another memory of the bustling lady, who from the warmth of her touch Freya assumed had been human, muttering about Sarafan healers not knowing the first thing about dealing with poisons. Her eyes then slid down to appraise her outfit, an act that left her reeling in self-conscious dismay. It was probably useful as camouflage, but all things considered, had she been in her right mind, she wouldn't have been caught dead in it.  
  
Stuffing a large slice of bread into her eagerly waiting mouth, Freya moved gingerly across the room to examine the clothes that had presumably been left for her. Black leather. Much better. Pausing only to fill her mouth with a few slices of meat from the rapidly emptying plate, Freya disrobed, only then taking stock of the change in her own physique. If she ever got back to Earth, she'd be recommending a couple of months fighting vampires on Nosgoth over any Boot Camp in the world. Grinning to herself as she munched, she pulled on the trousers and slipped on the leather jerkin, a little adjustment with her belt knife leaving it more to her liking, if a little immodest.  
  
A last glance around the room revealed that the Gaminged had been left for her on a stool near the fireplace, and long-sustained curiosity welled within her as she lifted the massive tome. She sat back down on the palette, grabbing the plate as she did so, and traced her fingers around the silver icon on the cover of the book. It was unmistakeably the symbol of the Spectral Realm. Puzzled beyond measure, Freya began to read. A scant hour later, she put the book back down, most of it unread. The majority of the text was nonsense: unsubstantiated religious propaganda and spurious scaremongering; still more of it was ambiguous, very much in the vein of the prophecies of Nostradamus. However, Freya had read enough translator-ese in her time to recognise an interpretation that had been written without comprehension of the source material. In her opinion, there were enough hinted-at and intriguing conundrums in the writing to assure her that there was something to be gained by tracing the book back to its source. Which assessment led her back full circle to her original quest: she needed to see the original Sarafan documents on which the book was based.  
  
The woman was a little more hopeful about the success of the quest this time around. After all, she was now in the right place, in full possession of her mental and physical faculties, and better yet, she had a serious point of leverage over the keeper of the texts. With a feline smile, Freya vacated the simple bed with a luxurious stretch, attached her katana to her sword-belt and set off in search of the Vampire Lord.  
  
Her subsequent exploration of Raziel's domain was a pure and unadulterated joy. Even during the second and third playing, she'd spent more time wandering these particular halls than any of the larger locations in the game - it held a poignant lure, a singular charm that had as much to do with the vivid reconstruction of the terrain as the power of the music that accompanied the return of the realm's Lord to his Clanlands. It took a good half hour to reach her destination, despite the fact that she knew with unerring clarity what lay around each corner, through each door. Each step was hesitant, not for fear, but through the desire to take in every minute detail of the architecture, which in itself was staggering. She noted with interest that a sloping passage, always seen underwater, here led to a dry, well-lit underground chamber, and was later surprised not to see a goblin-faced degenerate before a certain wooden door. Her taste for exploration sated for the moment, Freya turned her steps toward the central hall, almost immediately encountering small groups of Razielim of both the Fledgeling and Elite caste. Her confident, self-assured stride went some way towards ensuring that she remained unchallenged as she walked up between the two massive statues that flanked the hall's entrance, noting with wry amusement that the identity of the model could now be discerned.  
  
Ascending another flight of steps, Freya found herself back on the dais where she had regained her sword the previous night. Raziel stood near the back wall, one claw raised in a gesture of admonishment while the fledge, Isca, nodded in acceptance of some mistake. To the right of the two figures, Freya sought - and found - a door emblazoned with a sun-symbol. Uplifted by the fact that she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that a warp gate lay below, she leaned against one of the columns, arms folded, and waited until the vampire Lord should spare her a glance. Raziel, his conversation with Isca finally concluded, looked across to ascertain the identity of the figure that awaited his attention. His double-take bordered on comical and Freya consequently had trouble keeping a straight face.  
  
"I was hoping you might be able to spare me a minute." She hazarded when she trusted herself to speak once again, her eyes alighting momentarily on Isca, whose jaw was hanging open. He was not so long dead.  
  
Raziel indicated the other, wooden door to the left of the dais and followed her through. On entering a side room whose use was apparent from the multitude of tomes and papers strewn about shelf and tabletop, he seated himself in a high-backed ebony chair padded with a deep red cushion, set his steepled claws against his chin, and waited for her to begin.  
  
She leaned against the marble lintel, one hand on hip, a confident, intuitive smile on her revitalised features, and asked the question.  
  
"So, what's it going to take to get a look at those texts?"  
  
Raziel tilted his head, disobliging. "I was under the impression that your incentive for obtaining the documents was to restore your memories. Surely you no longer have need of them."  
  
Evidently, that particular approach was not going to work. Freya had never been sure from what she'd read whether these Nosgoth Vampires were capable of being tempted in such a manner. No matter, she had other methods of persuasion up her sleeve. She took a seat opposite him, leaning back with her elbows on the armrests, to all appearances very much at ease. Much as she resented telling him of the potential use of the writings, it seemed this constituted her best chance at getting his cooperation.  
  
"I have reason to believe that those documents may hold the information I need to get back home."  
  
"Are you lost?" he asked facetiously, "If so I have maps . . ."  
  
His lack of understanding riled her and sparked an uncalled-for outburst. "Do you think I chose to come here? When I arrived in the cave with the blood demon, where do you think I came from - thin air?" the vampire was clearly taken aback at the ferociousness of her reply. "I was torn out of my own world without so much as a by-your-leave and dumped on this barbaric rock where everyone and their dog has been out to get me." Freya relented somewhat as she realised the person she was berating was, as far as she knew, blameless. She stood again, her anxiety breeding a nervous energy that made her pace, restless about the chamber.  
  
The vampire regarded her in patient, expectant silence. He held the cards.  
  
Decisive, she looked him straight in the eye, unflinching before the piercing, gold-tinged gaze. "I have information about your future."  
  
That secured his interest. "Speak."  
  
Freya maintained the eye contact deliberately. "Show me the texts."  
  
The Vampire laughed. "You are in no position to make demands, Sarafan . . ."  
  
"Don't call me that!" She snapped, making plain her desire to be disassociated from the fanatic, misguided knights. "My name's Freya."  
  
"Freya . . ." he tried the name on his tongue for size. "What makes you think you know anything of my future?"  
  
The woman considered her reply. Telling a centuries-old Vampire Lord that the reason she knew about his future was because she'd played it out in a game would probably be misconstrued and earn her an unpleasant trip to an early grave. Her searching mind soon settled on the fragile atmosphere of trust they had established.  
  
"You have had evidence of my trust in you several times over." Raziel could not refute that truth. "Now I ask that you trust me in return. Certain things have been given me to know, and some of those events . . ." a flashing vision of the man before her being battered to a fleshless living corpse by the tumultuous waters of the maelstrom caused a momentary shiver, "You would be wise to take measures to avoid."  
  
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, apparently giving the matter some serious consideration. Having reached a decision, he nodded thoughtfully. "Very well . . ."  
  
The door to the chamber burst open, startling both its occupants. Raziel's heated reprimand was cut short as the identity of the intruder became known. "Turel . . ."  
  
Turel regarded his brother in mock surprise. "We were to meet at sundown, Raziel." His eyes wandered to Freya and appraised her changed appearance appreciatively. He greeted her with a contagious smile. "I'll be awaiting you next door, brother - don't keep me too long, will you?"  
  
Raziel scowled at him. "I am done here."  
  
As he stood to leave, he observed that Freya seemed not at all perturbed by his mid-conversation departure. He smiled inwardly, guessing her intentions.  
  
"Please feel free to explore at your leisure." He paused and fixed her with a knowing grin. "Although I wouldn't bother snooping around for those texts in my absence; they are concealed in a vault that will open only for me."  
  
Freya feigned offence that he would think her capable of such a deed, only to make a petulant face at the door a moment later as it closed behind him. 


	14. Siblings

The comfortable quiet of the broad, paved hallway was broken by the steady clicking of cloven feet on granite as Raziel and Zephon made their way to the Razielim Council Chamber. Torchlight flickered from sconce-held brands that adorned the walls at regular intervals, lending a pleasant, mellow hue to the evening air. They spoke little as they walked; much of the information they planned to discuss was not meant for Fledgeling - or even Elite - ears. After a while, Raziel voiced a question, more to break the silence than anything else. "Is Zephon not joining us?" queried the vampire, "I would have thought he of all people would want to be present at this meeting."  
  
"He has much to rebuild." Replied Turel darkly. "Besides, he has already made his desire for punishment known."  
  
Raziel humphed in amusement. He could well imagine the embellishments his incensed sibling had added to his request; if he had his way, there's be little left of the Sarafan Lord by the end of the day. They arrived at length at the designated chamber by means of a winding stone stair and a drawbridge which constituted the only means of access to this part of the building. Raziel waved his brother through the massive ebon door, once inside offering him a goblet of mulled wine, one of the few 'human' drinks a vampire would still imbibe by choice. Turel accepted with due grace and presently they set about compiling list of Antaris' crimes against the Vampire nation. Their intention was to present the evidence to Kain so that the Master Vampire might impose a punishment suitable for the crimes committed. When a natural break arose in their work, Raziel asked conversationally about the whereabouts of Sarafan in question.  
  
"I had him transferred to one of your cells when I arrived."  
  
Raziel nodded in approval. "I'll have one of my Elite go down and give him a good kicking before we leave."  
  
As both Lords had expected, it took several hours to compile the list. In addition to the Sarafan Lord's recent outrageous attacks on Zephon and the Sanctuary, there were endless minor misdemeanours with which the Lieutenants felt he should also be charged. At long last, their damning inventory completed, the two sat back to review their work and ensure there had been no omissions. Heaven forefend that Antaris should miss one iota of torment for an oversight on their part!  
  
Casting a sly glance at his brother, Turel chanced, "And what of his transgressions against the P'ramma?"  
  
"That is not our concern." Replied Raziel sternly.  
  
His companion gave a provocative chuckle. "It was enough of a concern yesterday for you to go chasing after her to Meridian." Turel, in common with all siblings everywhere, took great delight in antagonising his brothers.  
  
Raziel gave him a quelling glance "There are more pressing matters at hand. Tell me, what news from the Sanctuary of the Clans? How much damage was done?"  
  
"Few got past the wards." It became clear from Turel's consequent explanation that the Clans were more concerned about the sheer audacity of the attack than any transitory physical harm. "Still," he commented optimistically, "The instigator of the assault is in our hands now, and after Kain has taken appropriate action, the Sarafan will no longer be a thorn in our side."  
  
Raziel was far from convinced. "Antaris was not the only Sarafan with an overinflated ego and a nominal lordship, Turel. Others will emerge from his shadow and follow in his footsteps. Our attack on Meridian will not be without its repercussions."  
  
Turel nodded, rising from his seat to refill his cup. Raziel held out his own for replenishment as he continued, his chin resting contemplatively on his fist. "There are numerous Sarafan strongholds scattered throughout Nosgoth. If it comes to all-out conflict, what with Zephon's fighting force at half strength, I would not like to guess at the outcome."  
  
Turel resumed his seat and drummed his claws lightly on the curved wooden armrest. There is one possible means we might use to increase our chances . . ." Raziel raised his brows in courteous interest. "Did you ever seek out the remains of that blood demon?" His brother, tardily remembering, nodded assent. The past months' events had taken much of his time and attention. Turel resumed his pitch, "Were we to consume its essence, the power to be gained would be such that there would be none who could stand against us, and Nosgoth would be ripe for our uncontested rule."  
  
His eyes narrowing in calculating thought, Raziel departed in search of the phial. His path took him along an elevated, balustraded corridor which overlooked a large hall where the fledgelings were wont to gather at this hour. A minor commotion from below caused him to peer over in investigatory curiosity to see that Freya had joined them in their evening's recreation. They were evidently playing a game of sorts, at which the woman seemed to be consistently losing. However, the atmosphere was neither oppressive or threatening, quite the contrary in fact, and not only was it keeping his fledgelings out of trouble, but it was ensuring that the P'ramma - Freya, he corrected himself - would not be snooping around his vaults. He left them to it.  
  
Raziel passed a massive claw above a bloodstone set in the sculpted hands of a supplicating sandstone seraph and the solid rock wall before him parted with the grinding, reluctant scrape of stone on stone. He stepped across the threshold and at once that familiar feeling of utter safety and homecoming washed over him as his feet once again rested on the ground of his inner sanctum. As the rock wall slid closed behind him, leaving him for the briefest of moments in the welcoming embrace of Stygian darkness, a vast network of vermillion veins began to spread from his cloven feet to encompass every inch of floor, wall and rocky ceiling, illuminating the chamber in a warm red glow. Avoiding the temptation to succumb to the siren song of the purpose- built niche in the ground and take a moment of restorative respite, the vampire crossed the room to where a massive stone sarcophagus stood incongruously in one corner. A quick rummage through its haphazardly - piled contents brought to light not only the phial, but also a large number of the much sought-after Sarafan documents. With a self- satisfied smile, Raziel replaced the texts. He would get his money's worth from them, eventually.  
  
On his return, he noticed that the fledges were now singing some form of repetitive song, where errors seemed to be punished with a draught from a large stein which was being passed around the steadily growing group. Many of his fledgelings were still new to their vampiric un-lives, and it often took many years for some of them to fully shed the illusory remnants of the mortal coil. A final glance at the scene below caused him to shake his head anew at the vagaries of human behaviour, and he returned to the waiting Turel.  
  
The two Vampire Lords appraised the innocuous little bottle with all the reverence normally accorded a sacred relic. On holding the glinting crimson object up to the light, it could be discerned that the liquid was almost opaque, and unlike 'normal' blood had lost none of its fluidity, despite the length of time it had been separated from its erstwhile host. Raziel unstoppered the phial and raised it to his nose, his finely-attuned olfactory senses detecting nothing out of the ordinary. It smelled of blood. Seeing no reason to hesitate further, he set the liquid to his lips and was about to imbibe when he paused, turning suspiciously to Turel. "You seem eager to see me drink this, brother. Are you not tempted to try it yourself?"  
  
Turel, his fixed, expectant expression fading slightly, replied, "Of course, Raziel. It is my intention that all six of us should benefit from the power of the blood - but only after you. You were first-born, after all."  
  
Raziel, appeased by this argument, proceeded to quaff the elixir, making a face very much alike to that of a child who has just been made to swallow some nasty brown medicine. After draining a small portion of the bottle's contents, he passed the remainder to his companion. A moment later, he frowned as his stomach muscles began to contract sharply, ostensibly with the arrival of the liquid, and then when his three-clawed hands curled unbidden into rigid fists, he began to suspect that something was seriously amiss. Turel stood back and watched with detached, almost scientific interest as his brother cried out and collapsed to all fours in incredible pain, the agony of a forced, accelerated, premature transformation testing the endurance of even his vampiric strength.  
  
So the legends of the Demon's blood were true.  
  
Raziel, his mighty claws buried deep in the granite floor, his every muscle bunched and shaking, was unable to comprehend the magnitude of the pain that beset him. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured on every nerve in his body, and that each and every fibre of his being was being tugged and stretched beyond its natural boundaries. A sickening tearing noise forced him to crane his neck around to seek the source of the sound, his horror-struck gaze met by the emergence of thin slivers of chalk-white bone from twin slits at his shoulderblades. For one awful, gut-wrenching second as the bone continued to work its way out of his flesh, his overwrought mind almost convinced him that he was growing a misshapen, skeletal hand from his back. Moments later, thin globules of concentrated mucous membrane began to spread over, under and around the new bones, darkening progressively to an earthy hue. The leathery vanes began to distend, growing steadily with each passing moment until the pointed wingtips reached their full extension. With a groan of anguish, the indomitable Vampire Lord pitched face forwards onto the unyielding stone floor, his plunge upsetting the table on which had been perched the wine and goblets. His newborn wings fell useless at his sides with a sullen, wet slap.  
  
Wings.  
  
Turel certainly hadn't expected that.  
  
A concerned face appeared at the door. The crunch of marble on granite accompanied by the smash of crystal had brought Isca running. One glance at his revered Lord's state left the fledgeling staring open-mouthed in troubled awe.  
  
Turel regarded at the boy with eyes filled with predatory cunning. "Yes, fledge. Your master has metamorphosed. This is indeed a great day." Isca held back, uncertain until Turel added in a sharper tone, "Go, tell your compatriots!"  
  
At the fledgeling's rapid departure, Turel regarded the prostrate form of his brother where he lay twitching in unconscious torment at his feet, and took another draught from his goblet. He knew his sire well enough to guess Kain's reaction to one of his progeny overtaking his evolution.  
  
Raziel would be exiled, banished, outcast.  
  
No longer would he be Kain's favoured son.  
  
That honour would belong to Turel. 


	15. The Abyss

A pair of gold-flecked eyes opened reluctantly, dilated pupils contracting as light superseded dark. The reaction of the brain took longer. Gradually, the viewer became aware that the image before him constituted a cracked, fallen table, around which mulled wine had leached like a bloodstain, interspersed with shards of broken glass. He was dimly aware that the pain that had forced his loss of consciousness had receded to an unpleasant memory, and, placing both claws tentatively against the chill of the obstreperous stone floor, Raziel gingerly raised his upper body to appraise his surroundings. The room was illumined by the pale, roseate glimmer of dawn's first rays, the fire had burned low, and he was alone. He tilted his head towards the overturned table and the broken decanter to see a pair of deep, three-fold dents where his claws had bitten into solid rock. With a further concerted effort, the vampire got to his feet, swaying slightly as his balance compensated for extra weight. With that, recent happenings came crashing back to his mind, and, his skin crawling with dread, he cast a reluctant glance over his shoulder. The dream was true. Curious, he reached around his side and ran a claw down the outer wing-bone. It felt no different to the rest of his skin - completely natural in fact. Tensing his shoulder muscles with every ounce of the iron will centuries of control had placed at his beck and call, he managed to get the wings to twitch. Slightly. Patently unimpressed with this result, he concentrated harder, his mind willing the new muscles, wherever they were, to work. Even his claws hadn't been this hard to master.  
  
A few more minutes' experimentation, and the trick was his. Grinning in triumph, Raziel raised the wings to their full extension with a swishing rush of air. His thoughts, released from their wing-bound prison, turned to his brother's absence. Ere long, he came to the conclusion that Turel had taken the phial to Kain in advance; he could guess his brother's plan - he would present their bounty before the gathering, and then he, Raziel could make an entrance as the proof of the pudding! Fairly bursting with excitement and pride, Raziel departed for the Sanctuary of the Clans.  
  
As the Vampire Lord traversed the various passageways that led ever inwards to the foot of the Pillars of Nosgoth, eliciting astonished glances from the kinsmen he encountered along the way, he came across the indefatigable Antaris. The unfortunate was huddled at the feet of one of the Turelim Elite, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth and emitting an aggravating nasal whining sound. Raziel and the Turelim exchanged knowing smiles, while the Sarafan Lord murmured in oblivious neurosis at their feet.  
  
Restless shadows dappled Raziel's ivory flesh in faded magenta and smoky tan as he made his approach to Kain's throne room. With focussed purpose, the Lieutenant crossed the embossed circular floor, his senses keenly aware of the emotions emanating from his brethren as their eyes followed his every step in pure, unadulterated disbelief. Envy was paramount. He allowed himself a fleeting, self-assured smile. Soon, he and Turel would share their secret, and this assembly would constitute an insuperable pantheon against which not even the vaunted Sarafan war machine could possibly hope to prevail. Filled with elation at this eminently satisfying thought, he failed to notice Kain's look of calculating hatred as his steady, measured stride brought him at last to the pool of daylight that illuminated the centre of the chamber.  
  
Never one for neglecting ceremony, even today, Raziel sank to one knee before his Lord, one arm resting on the bended limb. Bowing his head at first in deference, then in assiduous concentration, the Vampire Lieutenant unfurled first one bat-like vane and then the other, allowing his compatriots and his sire to view the gifts in their unopened state before extending them skywards to their utmost, rigid dimensions. Once the magnificent appendages had been seen in their full glory, he allowed the wings to return to a half-opened state before rising to his feet and awaiting his sire's reaction with confident anticipation.  
  
In sullen silence, the Master Vampire stalked catlike towards his son, his interest centred on the spreading pinions that marked Raziel's disloyalty. His hands hovered a hair's breadth above the fruit of his perfidious offspring's treachery, causing his first-born to turn his head with a low snarl, the delicacy of the new gift all too clear. Without warning, Kain took hold of the tender, unfledged bones that traversed the diaphanous flesh and with a single, violent wrench, tore them free of their moorings.  
  
Agony.  
  
Kain watched in malicious satisfaction as his first-born sank to his knees in mindless torment, the torn and bleeding vanes quivering against their owner's trembling form. Still holding his progeny's bloodied bones in his cruel claws, Kain issued the order for punishment. The Lieutenants, thoroughly shocked by the unforeseen happenstance, exchanged glances tinged with uncertainty and indecision. Before long, Turel took the lead, striding forward with an ill-concealed look of victory to lift one of Raziel's arms. A further harsh command from Kain sent Dumah to his aid, and as the two wrestled the half-conscious vampire to a position whereby he might more easily be moved, Turel chanced a whisper in Raziel's heedless ear.  
  
"You brought this on yourself, brother."  
  
Nosgoth's rising sun sent scouting fingers of amber light across the sleeping form that lay in opulent, restful ease on the humblest of beds, all unknowing of the events transpiring beyond the sphere of her senses. The woman shifted slightly in her slumber, a feeling of well-being and security offering a long-awaited surcease from months of hardship. With a cleansing breath, Freya opened her eyes, a wry smile spreading slowly across her features as the memory of a promise made in haste the previous night returned. Resigned to the fact that she could no longer linger abed with this thought implanted in her mind, she rose and stretched, preparing herself mentally and physically for the challenge she had set herself for today: she would shortly be teaching the fledgelings Ninjitsu. A slight wobble as she dressed herself provoked a mild sense of self-reproof as she recalled challenging her new acquaintances to a quaffing competition in the early hours of the morning. A further flash of memory occurred as she opened the door to her chamber, inducing her to make a mental note never to play Truth or Dare with the Razielim again.  
  
Hardly had she left the room when Isca came bounding out from behind a nearby pillar, arousing a suspicion in the woman's mind that he had been waiting there for some time for her to emerge. He grinned with unseasonable jubilation at her bemused greeting and chattered excitedly about the day's promised events as they made their way to the fledgelings' training grounds. Despite the fledge's obvious enthusiasm for the promised acquisition of this new skill, Freya guessed instinctively that there was some other factor lurking behind the boy's overexcited eagerness. Nonetheless, his youthful zest was contagious, and she soon found herself drawn into playful banter about the imminent instruction. Arriving at the training grounds, it became apparent that word had spread, and Freya found herself face to face with not only a large contingent of fledgelings, but also a fair-sized group of the Razielim Elite.  
  
Shaking her head in disbelief, Freya commented, "Good thing you vampires heal quickly, otherwise I don't think your Lord would be too pleased with your condition after this first day's training."  
  
Isca's grin widened. "I doubt anything would upset him today."  
  
"Ah," Freya nodded in intuitive understanding. "They're determining Antaris' punishment."  
  
Isca's grin endured, his smile now reminiscent of a child with a secret it badly wants to be known.  
  
Freya's shoulders slumped. "Alright, I give in. What are you so happy about?"  
  
The fledgeling's answer left her dumbstruck. Never normally given to the frailties endemic in those of a nervous disposition, Freya could feel for the first time in her life the hurricane onset of panic. The corners of her mouth began to tug downwards of their own accord, heart speeding into a nervous, disquieting rhythm, lower limbs threatening to discharge their load without notice. An appalling thought then embedded itself in her mind: what if her reason for being on Nosgoth was to avert this day's tragedy? Guilt consumed her: she should have told Raziel of Kain's betrayal when she had the chance, instead of withholding the information for her own selfish purposes. Taking a quick glance around to get her bearings, she identified the path that led to the Abyss, and thence to the Sanctuary, and took off at a dead run.  
  
Isca's glance flicked from the waiting students to the rapidly departing teacher, and after a moment's perturbed musing, he hurried after her, bewilderment written plainly on his youthful features. A minute's chase brought them level, and the vampire jogged alongside her with annoying ease.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"To stop Raziel from meeting with Kain." Freya realised with some self- reproach that her reasons for attempting to avert the disaster were not wholly altruistic. If Raziel fell to his doom now, she'd never get at the Sarafan documents, and, recent developments notwithstanding, she still didn't want to spend the rest of her life stuck on Nosgoth. "When did he leave?"  
  
"My Lord departed over an hour ago," replied the increasingly puzzled fledgeling. "But you won't catch him - he'll have reached the Sanctuary by now."  
  
"That's exactly where I'm going."  
  
The fledge, seriously alarmed, caught her wrist, swinging her to a halt and advised, "One does not simply walk uninvited into Lord Kain's domain."  
  
Keenly aware that every moment now wasted reduced the possibility of her intervention, Freya shook her wrist free, and used the fledgeling's blatant respect for Raziel as leverage. "If you care anything for your Lord, you'll help me - Kain is going to kill him."  
  
The fledge's crestfallen look assured her of his cooperation, and the two were soon hurtling down the craggy passageway that led to the Lake of the Dead. During their flight, Freya reflected on a tangent notion that entered her head unexpectedly; someone from Earth must have come to Nosgoth in order to have written the game. Disturbingly enough, there was only one other possibility at this juncture, one that she didn't like to consider - she was actually in the loony bin and this was all a symptom of her madness.  
  
The pair came to a skidding halt as the tunnel terminated abruptly above the teeming waters of the vortex, where the turbulent liquid churned and spun like some Nosgoth-born Charybdis. Below them, in plain sight but infuriatingly beyond reach on the bare earth of the rocky land-bridge, Raziel's fate was about to be sealed. The gap between the ledge on which they stood and the light shale of the central rock, easily traversable to vampirekind, was beyond Freya's human capabilities. The woman kicked the sandstone wall in frustration.  
  
Isca, his eyes wide in absolute incomprehension, watched open-mouthed as Turel and Dumah dragged the insensible form of his revered Lord to the edge of the chasm, his recently flaunted wings hanging in flaccid, bloody tatters at his back. Some unknown and unpredicted force gripped Isca then, fuelled by recent years of instruction and adventure at Raziel's side, and with a low growl of menace, the fledgeling grabbed hold of his companion and threw himself from the ledge.  
  
Turel surveyed the situation with a feeling that bordered on ecstasy. He could never have conceived that his plan would bear such fruit. His intention had been to see his brother brought low by their invidious master, but this! This was something new. His interest in the intrigues of human society, and even those of his Elite - whom he considered far below him - was waning, and as he looked deep into the turbulent waters of the Abyss, he knew that this one pivotal event would change everything that was to come. He gripped his sibling's arm with renewed purpose.  
  
Isca and Freya hit the ground at the opposite end of the plateau, rolling to lessen the impact. They got to their feet in perfect tandem, mere metres in front of the Master Vampire himself, whose attention, despite the fact that he faced them, was focussed on the drama being enacted at the edge of the vortex to his rear.  
  
"Cast him in."  
  
Those words. Those crucial, damning words. It was over. The next few moments passed with nightmare sluggishness as, sword in hand, Freya joined Isca in a desperate, hopeless race for the edge of the cliff. Before they had gone halfway, they were intercepted by Rahab, who batted the fledge aside to crash senseless against the unyielding rock, and took a steely grip on Freya's sword-arm, impeding further progress. The woman's futile attempts to free herself were met with mocking laughter.  
  
A moment's struggle at the edge of the precipice, and the sombre air was rent with the insufferable scream of the wrongfully damned. Raziel was hurled from the eager hands of his brethren to be delivered to the eternities of torment that awaited him in the burning embrace of the Abyss.  
  
Silence reigned as the Lieutenants' minds reeled with the comprehension of their actions. The feeling that enveloped them now was one of Pyrrhic freedom, of ruthless power. Their world, their future, their destiny was forever changed.  
  
Wrenching her arm free from Rahab's oblivious grasp, Freya turned on the perpetrator of the duplicitous deed. "Hypocrite!" she spat. "How could you do this to your own son?" Her question was followed by a lengthy tirade of ill-advised criticism as she vented her guilt and frustration on the indifferent Vampire.  
  
Kain followed what he could of the woman's babbling until annoyance took the place of curiosity and he drew the Soul Reaver. Freya caught her breath - the weapon was nearly as big as she was. She also recalled, with not a little trepidation, that it was said that Kain never drew it unless he intended to use it. A glance to her rear showed that Turel and Dumah had rejoined their siblings, and stood in an intimidating, implacable line, waiting for their Lord's next command. Her gaze returned to the Master Vampire and she saw her death in his pitiless eyes. Even as the realisation took hold, Kain's face began to waver, slowly and ineluctably taking on the shape and proportions of the tribal mask on one of her African hangings, his expression changing from one of grim pleasure to one of cheated consternation as his quarry vanished into thin air.  
  
Freya looked around her, hardly daring to move. Home. Could it be? She turned full-circle with her katana stretched out at her side, noting nothing different in the appearance of her comfortably-furnished lounge. With a bewildered shake of her head, she sheathed the sword and replaced it on its wooden stand. As she hesitantly withdrew her hand, she wondered why she'd been going for the weapon in the first place. She hazarded a swift glance around. No burglars. She shrugged self-deprecatingly at her own paranoia and returned to the kitchen to finish making that much-needed cup of tea.  
  
Author's notes:  
  
I wasn't going to describe Raziel's execution - you all know what happens. In fact, if you're anything like me you've seen it a million times, but I decided, what the heck?  
  
Oh yeah, worry ye not, this is FAR from over. ; )  
  
Deionarra: I hope you realise that "Good kicking" in the last chapter was all your fault! ; ) 


End file.
